#and the fact they both d word is unspeakable

[blood-injections]

This is part 2 of a scrapped au that'll just be a one shot or something.

Part 1

"Poison?!" He gasped into the stark white room. Fun Ghoul was awake- in more ways than one.

They had revived him and then drugged him to interrogate him and make him fall into line. He had tried to fight back, to devise a plan to escape but failed and after a while he resorted to the only thing left that he could think of.

"There's more than electricity coursing through this city." He'd tell himself, trying to do the impossible and connect to something bigger than himself that he had only heard stories about. It worked- he assumed- and even as his mind succumbed to artificial fog he'd try and reach out, to connect to Party Poison's energy and send feelings or thoughts that he's alive and about where he was and that no matter what, he'd find a way home.

But finally, the drugs took over and they made him into their slave. A weapon. An exterminator.

Up until this moment when the sudden connection brought his true self back behind the wheel, he realized he had been in the back of his mind, he had been in a sort of dream state for months- unconscious but it seems he had never stopped trying to reach out with his soul and now, suddenly, it was a two-way connection.

Even across a desert, they both suddenly knew that they were connected, that they were both out there searching for the other. Poison had woken him up and he could finally escape. The information was somehow relayed to him back at Doctor Death's and he cried from happiness. Ghoul could sneak out and he knew that Poison would be waiting for him at the city gates.

After a long moment of their energy and emotions amd souls melding together they both knew that whatever was going to happen needed to hurry up and happen. Besides, they just wanted to see eachother again and soon as possible. Poison needed to get back to the diner and tell the others and Ghoul needed to get out of the city without the the director noticing that her trophy left without authorization.

So, the connection was severed and Ghoul was left grinning wildly into an empty room and Poison was left to stand back up, unspeakably relieved tears running down his face while he tackled Doctor D and exclaimed that his partner was in fact very much alive.

With that Poison hurries back to the diner, telling the others to hurry and and get dressed, that they had to go and that they'd explain on the way.

"Ghoul's alive." They say when they're finally speeding towards the city.

A beat of stunned silence passed once the words were voiced.

"What?" Kobra finally echoed.

"He's alive, he's in Battery City, he's about to escape and I'll be damned if we don't get there in time to pick him up."

"Wait- for real?" Jet gasped in shock, the killjoy's eyes were wide.

"Yes, I don't know all the details, I just know he's there and I think he can get out fairly easily."

"How do you-" Jet asked and Poison cut him off to explain the dream and his what if and his conversation with Doctor D.

Maybe they didn't completely understand or believe what he told them, but they could tell he wasn't lying, they could see the sincerity and honesty- the pure joy and relief that was in Poison's eyes. They could see that he believed what he said and with the purpose that that belief gave him he was back to his usual driven and focused self and that he was ready to fight an army single-handed if he had too.

So, even if they didn't quite know what to think, their Party Poison was back and they'd follow him to the end.

"Alright." Kobra hummed, agreeing out of sympathy and hope as he stared down the approaching skyline. "Let's go fucking get him."

-

Meanwhile, on the inside of those walls, Ghoul was in front of a vanity. He grimaced in pain as he dug the tracking chip out of the back of his neck. When he finally got the small foreign body out of his skin, he flicked it into the toilet, wiping the blood from his fingertips and slapping a bandage over the messy cut, if it needed to be someone could stitch it up when he was finally back home.

Home.

He breathed the word as he looked at his reflection, it didn't look like him. Short hair and a spotless face. White teeth and no stubble on his smooth, clean-shaved jawline. The most familiar part of his face was the scar that ran from the corner of his mouth towards his ear, the scar given to him in a fight with Korse years ago, the same Korse that a few months ago had killed him, the same Korse that while drugged he had been working with.

His fingertips ran over the raised skin on his cheek as bile rose in his throat. He turned away from his refection with the unfamiliar, too-clean face and the uniform of someone that hunted killjoys and he left the place he had somehow been living in with without looking back. It would have no trace of him but the blood left smeared from his dirty fingers on the edge of the sink, a warning to whoever found the apartment empty.

If he had more time he would've left something else, something rigged to explode- but he was on a hurry to get home.

BLI still had his original clothes somewhere- assuming they didn't burn it all- they very well might have. He'd love to have them back but he didn't actually mind that much, he could always paint a new gun or find a new jacket- even if he'd been wearing that ratty old vest since he was a kid in the slums.

And did Poison get his gun? He faintly remembered dying, he had the hazy memory of reaching out for Posion as blood filled his mouth. He could remember telling him to run as he held out his gun for him to take, something extra to fight with as they got away or to give the Phoenix Witch- but that's all he remembered. Anyway, at least he had what was most important- his life and control back over his own mind.

He tried his best to look like he belonged there on those city streets, keeping a flat, serious expression as he strutted toward the gates like he had a job to do. He kept character even if he wanted nothing more than to break into a sprint down the road.

He didn't have a plan other than get the fuck out, he was just headed for the gates. He could sense Poison getting closer and it made him feel like he was vibrating, his heart beating wildly in his chest. It was like an invisible string was connecting them and it was pulled taught as it reeled them in towards eachother.

His family was on their way, and soon he'd be back in his home- the desert, the diner. He'd have his brothers and he'd have Poison and he'd have their familiar warm bed. He'd be able to close his eyes and feel like himself again.

-

"So we're just gonna bust in? Alarms'll go off and we'll have Korse on our ass in a second." Kobra commented, Poison just nodded slightly.

"That's why it'll be in and out." He said, "Ram through the boom gate, pick him up and get the fuck outta there."

They were almost there, rapidly approaching the tunnel to the city. "He's almost there too." He said, he could feel it, it was like they were being drawn to eachother. God, he couldn't wait to see him again.

The orangish artificial light of the tunnel suddenly engulfed them as they were surrounded by concrete on every side. A few seconds of speed ahead of them was the striped bar that raised to let in BLI vehicles.

They definitely weren't in a BLI vehicle so Poison grinned madly as he floored it, the car jolting as it hit the rail which easily snapped as they drove right through it. As they sped into the start of the city red lights started to flash behind them, now it was all a matter of timing.

Ghoul heard the sirens coming from the gate in the distance and laughed, looking around and finally breaking character as he sprinted towards the exit. A flash of colour fired from the mouth of the tunnel and swerved with a screech of burning rubber, it spun to a halt ahead of him and Ghoul ran towards it. He saw Poison's face behind the windshield, mouth open in a wide, wild grin. Their eyes met and Ghoul almost collapsed and started crying in joy right then and there, but there was no time to loiter. The back door was thrown open for him and he jumped right in, tackling whoever was in the backseat. Poison quicky turned around and sped back out of the tunnel they had just invaded.

Jet and Kobra stared at him, Poison was focused on driving, fighting the urge to stop the car and embrace Ghoul. He'd wait until they got back to the diner and all were safe and sound.

"Holy shit." Kobra finally said, Jet was frozen with disbelief as he looked at his friend who was staring right back at him. Ghoul was already basically half on Jet's lap from where he had barrelled into the backseat so it was easy for them to immediately tear up and wrap their arms around eachother. Ghoul squeezed his friend desperately and his watering eyes overflowed as Jet Star shook with a silent sob.

It didn't take long to get through the zones at the speed that Poison didn't let up on, sand leaving a cloud behind them. Nothing was said during the drive, everything had happened so fast the shock of it all had yet to let up. In the backseat Jet didn't let Ghoul go, the back-from-the-dead killjoy didn't complain, he just relished in the safety of being reunited with his family and in their familiar car that was just as much home to him as the diner was.

Finally they pulled to a stop outside the diner and Poison was slack expressioned behind the wheel. The rest of them immediately got out at which Kobra embraced Ghoul, shaking a little as he said how good it was to see him again.

Poison didn't emerge until after a moment had passed and they had separated and he had removed the key out from the transmission, stepping out to stare at his partner, who stared right back.

Finally, the waterworks broke and Poison choked out a sob as he ran forward to envelope Ghoul in his arms, holding him desperately and pressing his face into his shoulder, soaking his white shirt with his tears. Ghoul sobbed as well as he squeezed him back and they rocked side to side.

After a long, long embrace that still wasn't nearly long enough Poison inhaled roughly and pulled back, moving a hand to Ghoul's cheek. "They cut your hair." He said softly and Ghoul closed his eyes and giggled, leaning into Poison's hand.

"Yeah, it's horrible." Ghoul choked out, hands still locked behind Poison's back.

"I missed you so much." Poison sobbed, their foreheads falling together.

"I fought for you." Ghoul breathed, and Poison finally kissed him desperately, his lips were salty from their tears.

Ghoul eagerly returned it until they regretfully pulled apart, realizing they should really go inside.

"I love you so fucking much." Ghoul uttered and Poison returned it, stepping back to wipe his face and smile at his partner. Kobra and Jet had since left them when they realized they weren't going to let go of eachother anytime soon, so they held hands as they finally entered the diner.

Ghoul took a deep breath as he walked through the doorway, taking in the familiar scent of the desert and the Diner's scent of hot leather and cigarette smoke. He exhaled a relieved sigh as he spoke.

"Home sweet home." 

---bonus---

Poison watched him with a slight frown, unlike Poison's rough expression of sunken, sleep deprived eyes and frown lined and his own skinny form frail from grief and struggle- Ghoul looked quite healthy.  He looked strong as ever and undamaged unless you looked closely and found all the scars from years of battle scattered amongst his tattoos- but who knows what they had out him through while he was stuck in battery city.

He frowned deeper at sight of the bloodied bandage on the back of Ghoul's neck but was distracted from all his thoughts as Ghoul turned around to him to press a short kiss to his lips. Poison's eyes dropped to his partner's chest, he had yet to put on a new shirt

"Do you have a scar?" He asked softly, fingers trialing up Ghoul's torso to his chest delicately, searching for a mark from the shot that should have killed him.

Ghoul's breath hitched as he answered. "Yeah, it's there." He said, guiding Poison's hand to the raised circular mark near his heart.

"How did you survive that?" Poison breathed, "We left you there to die, if I knew there was a chance-"

"Shut up." Ghoul said, putting a soft hand on Poison's cheek, thumb caressing the smooth skin beneath it. "You know I hate it when you blame yourself for things that aren't your fault. I was- you couldn't have done anything, it was their technological sorcery that resuscitated me."

Poison sighed, his hand laying flat on Ghouls warm chest, the gentle rise and fall beneath his fingers soothed him tremendously and he smiled softly.

"What happened to your neck?" He asked and Ghoul's hand reached towards the bandage.

"Oh, I forgot about that. I had to cut out a tracking chip they put in me, it was pretty small."

Poison cursed and Ghoul smiled at him. "I'm fine." He reassured, "Actually, I'm better than ever." He said, finally pulling a soft, long-faded shirt over himself.

"Because I'm back home, all thanks to you." He said, leaning forward to kiss Poison again, snaking his arms around him as he immediately kissed back, sighing against Ghoul's lips.

"I'm never fucking letting go of you again." Poison said when they separated.

"Good, cause' me neither." Returned Ghoul, grinning joyfully as he swept Poison into his arms bridal style.

"Ghoul!" He laughed loudly as his feet left the ground.

Ghoul bent his head to kiss Poison's cheek as he protested, giggling and carrying Poison out of their room.

Kobra grinned at the sight as they stumbled back into the room, glad to hear a laugh from his brother again. The room felt warm and full of life again- it hadn't in months.

Ghoul didn't put Poison down until he got to the shitty old couch that Kobra and Jet had moved to. He sat down sideways to face the others but didn't separate from his partner who had both arms wrapped around his midsection, listening from over his shoulder.

"I can't remember a lot of it." Ghoul began softly as the others gazed at him. "But I'll tell you guys what I do."

[2q5b]

NOACH

By Ezra

October 19th, 2023

I’m speaking this dvar torah to you in a week of unspeakable violence, of vicious bloodshed answered by vicious bloodshed, a cycle that seems never-ending. In great pain I cling to this book that has sustained my people for many generations and is asking us now to imagine peace, to minimize harm, to treat human beings as what we are: irreplaceable iterations of God’s very image.

At the end of last week’s Torah portion, God became exasperated, broken-hearted, by human evil and violence. Here is the prelude to God’s decision to flood the world and destroy humanity except for a single family, Noah’s family.

Genesis 6:5-6: God saw how great was human evil on earth—how every inclination of the thoughts of its heart was nothing but evil all day long. And God regretted having made humankind on earth and was sad in God’s heart.

 (וְכׇל־יֵ֙צֶר֙ מַחְשְׁבֹ֣ת לִבּ֔וֹ רַ֥ק רַ֖ע כׇּל־הַיּֽוֹם׃)

This word I’ve translated as “inclination” – yetzer – to my eye, it glows, it burns.

The word became important in rabbinic Judaism in a way that is still in prevalent usage among religious Jews today: the concept that all people have a good inclination and an evil inclination (yetzer hatov and yetzer hara), and that the evil inclination must be mastered and subordinated to the good in order to avoid sin.

The word recurs after the flood, in Gen. 8:21, when Noach, without being told to do so, builds an altar and sacrifices various animals as a gift to God:

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהֹוָ֜ה אֶל־לִבּ֗וֹ לֹֽא־אֹ֠סִ֠ף לְקַלֵּ֨ל ע֤וֹד אֶת־הָֽאֲדָמָה֙ בַּעֲב֣וּר הָֽאָדָ֔ם כִּ֠י יֵ֣צֶר לֵ֧ב הָאָדָ֛ם רַ֖ע מִנְּעֻרָ֑יו וְלֹֽא־אֹסִ֥ף ע֛וֹד לְהַכּ֥וֹת אֶת־כׇּל־חַ֖י כַּֽאֲשֶׁ֥ר עָשִֽׂיתִי

God said in God’s heart: “I will never again curse the earth because of humankind, since the inclination of the human heart is evil from its youth; nor will I ever again destroy every living being, as I have done.”

Listen to how God talks about us, before the flood and after, in anger and then in reconciliation. The words repeat, glowing. They sizzle when you touch them together. Humankind, evil, heart (God’s and ours, both times). And that word, yetzer. The evil of the yetzer of the human heart is first the reason to destroy humankind, and subsequently the reason never to do so again. The yetzer hasn’t changed; it’s still evil at the end of the story. But somehow God has changed.

God is coming to accept what the human heart is. It’s as though Noach’s voluntary sacrificial gift startled God into a sudden realization. Maybe, despite this evil inclination, humankind is not a failed experiment after all. Maybe some kind of understanding can be reached.

One difference in the two statements is that when God relents, God says that the human yetzer is evil “from its youth.” God is starting to recognize that human beings are creatures that develop and change. We begin life with an impulse to evil, which never leaves us. But we do transform. As Noach showed, we can come to the point that we take it upon ourselves to lovingly deepen our relationship with our Source.

So an unconditional covenant is established: God will not destroy humanity, and humans are morally culpable in certain key ways. It’s not an if-then agreement.  They are new facts, promises that cannot be broken, by which both humans and God are bound. And then comes the rainbow, like a wedding ring, a symbol of the new relationship.

It matters that it’s a rainbow. There is the simple level: a rainbow shows up when it rains, so we know that the rain is not here to destroy us all. But there’s more to it than that.

A rainbow is something that happens to light, a visual phenomenon that separates and displays white light’s various visible frequencies. In other words, it is a translation of light—a mysterious and life-sustaining force from above—into the language of the human eye and mind. The rainbow is a direct analogy for God’s acknowledgment of our limitations and willingness to engage with us anyway. From a divine unity comes human diversity. Light, perfect and pure, can bend; separation and distinction are tolerable. We won’t be perfectly good, but the trade off is that will be capable of beholding beauty, of understanding God’s light in our own diversity of ways.

My blessing for us is that we continue to learn to accept the human heart with all its flaws, understanding that it is our imperfections and variations that allow relationship to exist at all. We see things differently, distortedly, not as perfect white light but as our individual hearts take them in, each with our own lens. And so we can tell each other how we see it. We have reason to listen, reason to learn to love. Our difference is an invitation to try to understand. Our hearts make up a gorgeous spectrum waiting to be beheld. 

May we behold a lasting and just peace, immediately, with all captives and refugees returned to their loved ones in safety. Shabbat shalom.

[dodounchained]

I have a genuine question: wouldn't it be better to practice creating your own art, rather than using these image generators? to each their own, but considering how many people struggle creating their own art because of depression following this "ai" boom, I know I personally would not want to contribute to something that makes other people feel bad about creating things by hand.

Hey, thanks for the questions and the chance to dive into these overdue thoughts from a personal angle, because you phrased them so well :)

The straightforward reason I don't practice drawing and create things with my own hands is that I simply don't have enough time to learn a new skill while working a 9-to-5 job while taking care of the family. Fandom is my escape, and there's only so much I can dedicate to it. Learning to paint demands significant effort, time, and talent, and unfortunately, I don't possess those gifts at the moment.

Let me be clear: "AI-generated imagery" can't replace traditionally painted arts, whether on canvas or through digital tools like Wacom or Procreate. They're not even in the same ballpark. Fun fact, I wanted to be a painter as a kid because my mom was one, but she shunned it because it didn't work out well for her. In the game industry I'm in now, Art directors and artists are still highly sought after and are crucial to any successful project. At the moment, AI generation can't precisely interpret what we envision or tell a client that, no, black is too dark for a 70 pt bold logo in a children's game with predominantly pastel colors. It can't even add weight to a line or create a simple walking animation. Returning to the point, we live in a time where both Photoshop skills and traditional oil painting are appreciated, where calligraphy and typewriting are both practiced, and where sculpture and 3D printer skills are both taught in schools. I hope for a future where AI imagery and the drawing community are not at odds but appreciated in their own ways.

For aspiring artists struggling, I can't comment directly as I'm navigating the same path. But I know the struggle is real, justified, and will pay off in the end. If you ask me to feel bad for them, it's like asking a working person if they feel guilty towards Uber drivers. The analogy falls apart because AI and creative artists aren't competing for the same limited real-life resources right now. If someone felt guilty for being able to do something others can't, they'd be living with guilt every moment.

If I sound a bit defensive, I hope for your understanding. I have imposter syndromes (deserved or not), being a woman in tech and an AI image generator (let's not stretch for the word AI artist). This blog goes on hiatus when I'm so depressed that I can't even open the page. I'm enraptured in the R&D process, but there's no one I can talk to about it. It's a different struggle, but I have terabytes of failed models, wasted hours, and spreadsheets documenting what might have gone wrong before the model reaches its best likeness. What's worse, there's little community for us. AI imagery gets a bad rep because there are mountains of perverts doing unspeakable things I witness every day on forums and servers while looking for the newest style or training method. I'm scared to tell people this is what I (can) do. Perhaps in the '90s, people denied going on the internet because it automatically equated them with being a porn-watcher. That'd be funny.

If there's anything to feel bad about, it's the copyright issue in the AI community. I try my best to use models trained over "ethically" obtained images, but one can never be sure. None of my work has ever been used commercially either.

This response has probably gone on a tangent for too long, and I'd like to appreciate your attention if you've reached this far. Fandom is my escapism, and I have so many headcanons that would otherwise be fleeting posts that vanish in a second. Now, I'm gifted with this new tool to indulge in them, and I feel truly lucky.

[thedistantdusk]

Arcadia, Chapter 4

Well! What could happen next to our star-crossed investigative pair? Yeah idk, man... somehow, this fic got a lot darker than I intended. Anyway! Thanks again to the same folks, without whom this story wouldn’t be possible. None of this story is safe for work, and this chapter is no exception ;) 

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

D A Y + F O U R

She’s not sure when she wakes up. Her eyes blink open in the bleary morning… that foggy gap between night and day. Blue-green light streams through the windows, coloring the bedroom like it’s underwater.

He’s the first thing she notices, all warm and curled beside her. Harry… her Harry. A sad smile graces her lips as it all comes flooding back. Mike. The tulpa. The shower. Harry…

But together, all of those things are uncomfortable. Bits of it were nice, but the whole thing makes her stomach churn. It’s much easier to—

She presses her bum against him, hoping that wakes him up. Hoping he takes the hint. Harry heaves a deep breath, but doesn’t acknowledge her. Ginny bites her lip and wiggles back. Again.

Finally, he responds. But not how she’d hoped.

“Let’s… not jump to starting that up again,” Harry murmurs into her ear, his voice graveled with sleep. “Ok?”

She whips around, brow furrowed. “So you’ve suddenly become unattracted to—?”

He barks out a humorless laugh and reaches for his glasses. “We both know that’ll never happen.” He takes her in, reclining on the tufted headboard; she can’t help but feel flattered by the red patches that bloom on his cheeks. “Erm…” He clears his throat. “Could you get a dressing gown, actually? I really want to have a serious conversation and…”

He’s never been able to concentrate while she’s naked, has he?

“Sure.” For some reason, her skin prickles as she rises to her feet to pad across the carpet. Exposed. She feels exposed, even though Harry’s probably seen her naked more times than she has. Because this time, it’s not so much that he’s seeing her body naked— it’s that he’s about to discuss things she’s tried very, very hard to deny.

Ginny emerges from the closet in a white dressing gown and gives Harry a little twirl. “Happy?”

His lips curl in a tired smile. “Not… exactly. But I’m hoping to change that.”

“Oh?” Ginny settles in the desk chair. She’s not keen on this conversation, but some part of her recognizes it’s long overdue.

Harry begins by clearing his throat again. “So. Erm.” He places his fingers in a steeple and studies them. “As I… admitted last night, I’ve never stopped loving you. It’s been an awful, awful five years, but frankly it would’ve been worse if we’d stayed together, under those circumstances.”

She opens her mouth to object, but he raises a hand to forestall an interruption.

“Let… let me finish. Because after Percy died...” He shoots her a significant look. “You changed. Ok?”

“That’s not exactly fair,” she snaps, peering at her painted toenails. “Of fucking course I changed. If I didn’t change, I’d be a bloody sociopath. Is that who you wanted to shag?”

Harry heaves a deep sigh. “No. And I’m not going to let you get away with twisting things… again. Ok? Please, just let me finish.”

She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth. For fuck’s sake, why does she already want to cry?

“You changed,” Harry continues, “and I really don’t blame you for it, but you refused to talk about Percy, or that night, or- or honestly, even anything remotely sad! Ever!” He pauses to collect his thoughts; guilt stabs at Ginny’s stomach. She wasn’t aware this frustrated him quite so much…

“You threw yourself into schoolwork,” he adds, blinking at the far wall. “You lost interest in things you loved. We still had sex, but it was…” He winces. “Unattached. It was… it was like it didn’t even need to be me there, in particular.” His eyes flit back to hers. “I tried to talk to you about it loads of times, but then when you joined the Unspeakables, you just used that as an excuse.”

Traitorous tears drip down her cheeks. She brushes them away to defend herself. “I was already interested in joining up before that,” Ginny insists, her voice warbling. “You weren’t there that year, Harry. You didn’t see what it was like at Hogwarts. The Unspeakables were putting out all this… this rubbish misinformation about you and about muggleborns, and—”

“—All of that is well and good,” Harry interrupts, “but the fact is that you became a different person after Percy died, and after nearly a year of living with that, I’d had enough.” He shrugs. “And even five years later, you’ve never sought help, as far as I know. Professional help, from someone who knows what they’re talking about. Not the type of help you find at the bottom of a pint.”

He’s right, of course. It’s like a stinging slap in the face, but he’s bloody right.

“So!” Harry clears his throat again. “As much as I… enjoyed last night, that can’t happen again if we don’t fix what split us up before. You’re still convinced you killed Percy. Until you’re not? This”— he gestures between them— “can’t work. Full stop.”

Ginny swallows and stares into her lap. “I’m not responsible for my brother’s death,” she whispers, emotionless. It’s a mantra, an oath, one she’s so accustomed to repeating that it’s turned foreign and unfamiliar on her tongue.

“Oh, I’m aware,” Harry says, spreading his palms. “The whole bloody world is aware, Jenny.” He sucks his teeth. “But you aren’t.”

There’s a pause. Ginny bites her lip, tempted to launch the spring-loaded denial she’s learned through years of counseling. But this time, it doesn’t come.

Because Harry knows better.

Shit.

That fact settles in the pit of her stomach; what are the chances, really, that she found herself trapped and playing house with the only person on earth who knows better.

“I was the last to see him,” she mutters, eyes downcast. “I told him he’d never replace Fred. I was drunk. Stupid. Stupidly drunk.” She grips her head in her hands, but the words don’t stop. They’re shooting from her, spurred by years of grief and regret and bursting forth like a steam engine.

“My stupid fucking temper,” she continues, every syllable dripping with self-loathing. “Ruining everything. And then he goes and—” She makes a flailing gesture. “Offs himself. Right on my mother’s fucking birthday! The day before your parents—”

“I know,” Harry whispers, his voice pleading. “Ginny, I know. But please, love, it’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault.”

She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. It’s too much to say it aloud, to admit it, to let the waves of regret wash over her. There’s a scuttling of movement as she blinks ahead, gaping like a fish out of water. She’s not even surprised to feel Harry wrapping his arms around her and bringing her back to the bed. To feel his lips pressing to her temple as her body wracks with sobs. And she can’t do anything but lean into him. She can’t do anything but surrender, completely. To indulge in feeling raw and vulnerable and alive.

She doesn’t know how long it takes to come to. It’s not until she’s clinging to his chest that she draws a deep breath.

“You never told me any of this,” Harry says softly, mournfully, his hand playing with her hair. He loves her hair. He’s always loved her hair. With a final sob, she admits— if only to herself— that she misses letting him love it. She misses how he’d bury his face in the crook of her neck. How he’d inhale deeply, right at the crown of her head, and blink down at her with a dreamy smile.

She misses him.

Fuck. She misses him. And not just shagging him… but the whole bit. The late-night snacks and discussions on quidditch plays and heated debates about the best brand of toilet roll.

“What… what if I agree to work on it?” she finally whispers, eyelashes thick with half-dried tears.

Harry sighs; his hands still haven’t left her hair. “If we both agree to work on it… because trust me, I’m not doing fantastic either.” He lets out a chuckle. “Do you know how weird that was, being the stable one for once? Anyway.” He waves this off and continues. “If we both work on it, with proper mind-healers…” He swallows. “I don’t see why we couldn't be physical. Eventually.”

She pulls back to give him a watery grin. “I love you,” she murmurs. For the first time in years, her chest feels full. Her heart warm. Like there’s a chance at something in the future that doesn’t involve work and sadness and takeaways.

But speaking of work.

“I’d erm. Like to keep things with us private,” she says, playing with a piece of lint on the duvet. “Especially from work. And my family. Because…”

The thought of Attica’s face, pinched in disappointment, is nearly enough to replace the progress they’ve made over the past day.

“No,” Harry agrees quickly. “That’s. Yeah. Especially from Ron.” He shudders. “Can you imagine how well that would go over?”

“Huh! That’s ridiculous, Harry.” She bats her eyes at him, her expression the picture of innocence. “You mean you don’t want my brother to know that you went down on me and promptly spunked your—”

He cuts her off with a laugh, tossing a pillow on her face. She pulls it off with a giggle before settling beside him.

“Didn’t think you noticed that,” he admits, trailing a finger down the side of her face. “I really hoped you were asleep.”

She stifles a yawn. “Mmm. Don’t have to be Hermione to put that one together. Clue one: you were down there, which you’ve always… enjoyed.” She sleepily raises her eyebrows. “Clue two, I’ve seen you do that before — more than once— and you always have this weird… sort of duck-walk to take your trousers off.”

Harry groans, his entire face the color of her hair. “Please, please, don’t stop on account of me.” He somehow manages a sarcastic drawl as he removes his glasses and places them on the bedside table. “Let’s continue to detail all the times I’ve finished too quickly.”

“Not just too quickly,” she corrects, kissing him on the nose. “I’m only talking about coming in your trousers, which you’ve also managed to do several ti—”

Harry snorts. “And how many times have you done it, then?” His green eyes dance with mischief. “Also more than once. As memory serves, our time at Hogwarts got a lot more interesting once you discovered the combination of my thigh and snogging. You just don’t have the equipment to make things particularly messy when—”

“Clue three!” she loudly calls over him. He has the grace to laugh as she turns so they're spooning, her bum pressed against his crotch.

“I… said I loved you,” she finishes, interlacing their fingers. “And that’s always… you know.”

Harry shudders; there’s a sudden rise of fabric against her bum. “Ok, speaking of embarrassing,” he admits, adjusting himself. “You’re actually going to have to erm. Stop saying that? For now? Because…”

“Trust me, Auror Potter,” she murmurs, dropping her voice to her best impression of Kingsley. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Unfair,” he complains, toying with a piece of her hair. “As you can see, I’m a bit of a mess. It still turns me on when you say you love me.”

“Yeah, well, it still turns me on when you breathe,” she mutters, her eyes growing heavy. “Reckon we can just be messes together.”

Harry chuckles before burying his face into her hair. “I’ll always be your mess. Jenny.”

[memes-in-a-half-shell]

Business AU - Working Late, Part 4

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

Flirt mode  A C T I V A T E D 👏

As everyone else in the room was getting ready to depart for the day - chatting here and there and gathering their belongings - Vee was mostly occupied by her handbag, making sure everything was there before she would leave the place. She did not hear when someone approached her, but she next felt the poke of an object to her right shoulder.

“I didn’t want to make you feel bad earlier,” started Donatello’s voice. “But I truly do think we’re connected somehow now.”

She looked at him, first noticing that he had been poking her with a cardboard file folder, and then she took a good look at his clothes. Purple. AT LEAST not the same shade. He was wearing a fitting v-neck sweater of a dark purple color, with a white shirt  and a black tie underneath, his looks completed with dark charcoal pants and black shoes.

“... You’ve got to be kidding me,” started Vee with a stifled laugh. “Why are we like this?”

“I’m not superstitious, but maybe it’s destiny. We were meant to work together,” he winked. “Great minds think alike!”

Vee couldn’t hide her smile, next prompting him to get on the move for their dinner. She first expected them to walk out of the building and head to a subway station, but she was surprised to see the turtle head towards the indoor parking lot of the building.

“Wait, you want us to go by car?” she asked, her heels clacking rapidly on the tiled floor as she caught up to him.

“Why not? It’ll be quieter that way! I don’t feel like dealing with crowds in the subway anyway.”

She had to give him that, at least. A car would smell better than a subway train... As they made their way through the lot, she noticed Donnie getting out keys, the woman commenting:

“Huh, I thought you’d have a chauffeur or something like that.”

“Why, because I’m rich?” asked the mutant, amused. “I like driving, so I don’t see why I would leave all that fun to someone else.”

He pressed a button on a small remote attached to a key, which prompted a black SUV nearby to flash its light.

Vee was most certainly impressed by his taste, first observing the vehicle until she noticed the other opening the passenger door for her.

“The lady may take her seat.”

As she took place, her eyes scanned the interior.

The major difference she could notice from any other cars was how the driver seat was rearranged a bit further back, allowing space for the mutant’s shell most probably. As Donnie took place next, Vee couldn’t help her question:

“Is this car completely custom made?”

The other smirked: “If it was, it’d be way cooler. ... Nah for this I only had a Genesis GV80 model slightly modified to accomodate my form. I like the look of it and I don’t need something too extravagant to go around on the streets.”

“ ‘Don’t need something too extravagant’,” quoted the woman. “You do realize that you have an expensive car?”

“Remind me to show you my brother Mikey’s cars,” added Donnie, then starting the car’s ignition. “Then we can talk back about what’s expensive.”

As soon as the vehicle was brought to life, music was heard, being none other than Dio’s “Better In The Dark” track. The turtle rapidly fumbled to turn it down, his eyes widening.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry for that,” he said once silence was back.

“... Are you kidding? You shouldn’t apologize for listening to Dio!” reassured Vee. “That guy frickin’ rocks!”

The terrapin smirked: “Ah, a woman of good taste! You keep on getting better and better.”

Vee couldn’t help her smile in return, the pair then finally getting on the move.

***

Donnie had to park his SUV on a quiet street, the duo next walking towards their destination; New York’s Little Italy. The evening was already laying its shadows in the sky, but the streets were bright and colorful, the warmth in the air of the incoming summer days an absolute delight. A light conversation was held as they were walking, until Vee was abruptly stopped by almost falling due to one of her heels stumbling into a small crack in the sidewalk. She was first surprised by how fast Donnie had been to catching her, a small laugh escaping her. To feel his touch around her, his strength, all she could hear was her heart drumming in her ears. They continued their path, Vee’s arm hooked to Donatello’s. It simply felt like a dream at that point...

They finally arrived to the place; a small rustic looking restaurant that had been hiding from the bigger crowd’s broad sight. There were few patrons inside, the ambiance calm and somehow giving a “feels like home” kind of vibe. Donnie seemed to know the place well, only quickly waving to the staff and already going for a table. It was a nice little corner with a table large enough so they could lay down their paperwork. Being a complete gentleman, the mutant was quick to draw a chair for Vee to sit on, waiting until she was seated properly before settling down across the table. A waiter was already at their disposition, Donnie already asking for a bottle of white wine, interjecting some Italian words in the bunch and ending with a “grazie mille”, to Vee’s surprise.

“You speak Italian?” she asked as the waiter was walking away.

“Non molti, ma un po' sì (Not a lot, but a little bit yes),” he answered. “Still learning, but I’m getting there.”

“Do you know any other languages?”

“I’ve tried to start learning Japanese alongside my brother Leonardo, but I’m not as proficient as him so far. I’ve also started French.”

Vee couldn’t help herself: “Donc, si je parle dans ma langue maternelle, tu devrais comprendre? (So, if I speak in my native tongue, you should understand?)”

Donnie froze for a moment, soon ruminating the words and showing a smile.

“Un peu (a bit),” he said. “But I feel like I need to practice a little more.” He did not skip a beat when adding: “I don’t know why, but I think a French Canadian’s accent sounds way more interesting than metropolitan French. There’s a certain flair to it, I can’t really explain...”

Vee was most certainly amused: “Try going into any rural parts of Québec, then you’ll feel like you’re speaking to aliens or something. Our French is unique, sometimes butchered, but it is nice indeed.” She did a small shrug. “I could help you practice, if you want.”

Their wine arrived, their glasses filled and the bottle left at their table. Donnie took his glass, pensively rolling the drink in his hand.

“You keep on giving, miss Vee, and I’ll soon feel cheap. First you’re helping me for the Lowline, now you’re proposing to help me with my French. ... My oh my, mademoiselle, I’ll have a debt to repay once again.”

“Let’s start by actually getting something for dinner,” added the woman, lifting the menu to her face in order to hide her blush. “It’ll give me time to think about if I need your help with something. What’s good in here?”

It was so hard to act casual...

“Their pastas are the best, but I’ll have to say that their tiramisu is to die for - I’m definitely grabbing one of those at the end.”

As the evening went along, Vee was finally starting to feel more at ease. The food was delicious, the wine delectable, and the company absolutely charming. They took some time to review the folder Donnie had brought along, talking about the project’s restrictions and demands. It was simple enough thus far, some ideas already boiling in the woman’s mind. Maybe the wine was kicking in, but she didn’t even flinch when her hand brushed the turtle’s over some papers. Her body language was screaming interest, lightly hunched over the table, actively listening to him and her smile tender. She couldn’t quite explain this attraction she felt. All she knew was that Donnie had this aura surrounding him; a welcoming and calm presence that made her feel safe and relaxed. His humor was subtle and his additions to a conversation well-placed. He was a man of many words and of a vast knowledge, although gladly giving the spotlight to any soul speaking, always listening with great interest. Vee could only admit that she wanted to learn more about him.

***

The dinner over, the pair headed back to the SUV, Donnie at least insisting that he could drop Vee to her place. How could she say no to a sweet smile such as his, anyway? The address handed, the ride went on smoothly in a comfortable silence, the woman glancing at the many lights outside - not even noticing that the terrapin would sometimes glance her way and feel this lovesick knot in his chest...

As he parked nearby her apartment building, he did not hesitate to get out as well, at least considering it good etiquette to escort her to the entrance.

“I hope I didn’t make it harder for you by cramming all that information in your face?” he said as they were talking, arms hooked again.

Vee shook her head, amused: “Absolutely not. It has given me ideas, in fact.”

“Good, good.”

As they stopped by the main door, they paused, their hooked arms transitioning into a longing, yet subtle touch of their hands. Vee finally moved her hand away, her blush faint as she removed a small strand of hair from her face.

“... This was nice, thank you,” she said. “Not the habitual work meetup I’m used to, but this was good for a change.”

Donnie quickly cleared his throat, retrieving his thoughts.

“Of course! It was quite pleasant, indeed. ... It’s not often that I get such enjoyable company.”

“You’re sweet, thank you.”

There it was, that silence as they both crossed gaze. That moment of unspeakable words and uncertain actions... The mutant sweetly smiled, breaking that moment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at work. ... Goodnight, Vee.”

“Goodnight, Donnie.” She felt like she could breathe again...

Yet, as she saw the other walk away, she added:

“Donnie!”

He turned back.

“I think I know how you can repay me for the French lessons,” she continued. “... How about another evening together? Not work related this time.”

Joy lightened up the turtle’s features, definitely agreeing: “Absolutely!”

And just like that, the night felt even better.

((Part 5))

[pumpkin-pi-e]

Writing prompt: Yandere erasermic with darling on their period.

[Enter Hizashi and Shouta playing a board game on their day off, Shouta just knows his husband is cheating, they both do, he just can’t figure out how he’s doing it, much to the blonde’s smug delight.]

You heard them before you saw them. Voices filtered down the hall as you laboriously made your way towards the commotion.

“Don’t hate the player, Shou, hate the game.”

“We both know you’re cheating, you could at least admit to it.”

“No bluffs, just luck.”

Rounding the corner, you entered the living room only to see Yamada leaned over the coffee table, using both arms to gather a pile of goods to himself, grinning like the canary that outsmarted the cat.

The pro heroes were sat around the piece of furniture in their casuals, hair down and fuzzy socks, a board between them. An airy melody of jazz dances and drifts in the air, mingling with the spice of fresh-baked cookies; the soft glow of the television cast warmth on the matching mugs swirling with chocolate and topped with marshmallows that bobbed to the mellow beat.

“How are you doing this?” The erasure hero demanded, red irises darting back and forth between the gloating emcee and the board with a scowl.

“Just get good,” He threw back matter of factly.

“Get on my level, scrub!”

At that, Aizawa makes direct eye contact with the voice hero, looking him dead in the eyes as he lifts an arm, a blonde brow raises in question at the stare down, and in one sweeping motion he knocks the board from the coffee table, pieces and all.

...

The DJ takes a moment to process, eyeing the mess of scattered pieces silently before raising his gaze to meet his partner’s, emerald clashing with charcoal.

“No one likes a sore loser, babe.”

In response, the teacher merely flicked a remaining pawn from the table.

“If you aren’t going to play fair then I won’t either.”

A pout tugs at Hizashi’s lip for all of five seconds before he’s springing back, and on the attack. Shouta starts at the smolder he’s suddenly on the receiving end of, thrown off by his swift change in attitude, watching with narrowed eyes of suspicion as his spouse crawls towards him on all fours, wanton, expression dripping with carnality, and further scrambling discarded bits of the game in his wake. He reflexively shrinks further into the couch. “Not a fan of chess? We can play another game, baby.” Shouta backpedals, making the symbol of the cross. “We’re supposed to be having a relaxing evening, remember?” He didn’t sign up for strenuous activity. “Playing board games.” He furthered his point by sparing a quick glance at the tall stack of boxes resting forlornly at the corner of the table, indignant in their stillness as if to say: are we a joke to you? “An idea of yours, mind you.” He sternly pressed, looking back, not daring to let his lascivious lover leave his sight for more than a second. Only to find him much too close for comfort. “Here, kitty, kitty.” He croons as Shouta continues to evade his clutches. Done with foreplay, Hizashi pounces.

He jumped into his lap with enthusiasm, pulling a grunt from the body below, throwing his arms around Shouta’s neck, he threw his hair back to better grin down at his captive.“How ‘bout stripper twister?”

“Get off.”

“And if I don’t?” Slow sensual swirls over his seat drew a startled gasp that tapered into a hiss, Hizashi’s hips moved in perfect circles, throwing it back like a dancer as eager hands roamed the expanse of his husband’s broad chest, grabbing greedy handfuls of his generous pecs. “You gonna purr for me, Chaton de sexe?” He all but panted into the other’s ear, getting worked up from the promises he continued to whisper in French, voice pitching and reaching unspeakable lows with the help of his quirk, relishing the drawn-out whine he received in response. Shouta’s hips canted of their own accord—and honestly, you couldn’t blame him. Your face was aflame, and you were a mere spectator. His breathing picked up to match his better half at the absolute filth filtering in his ears. Or was it expressions of admiration and praise? Aizawa couldn’t tell, he only knew it sounded like heaven, although he suspected the radio host’s words were straight from hell—pure sin. He fisted Yamada’s shirt to ground himself, knuckles turning white in the hideositie’s fabric. Now understanding those

‘eargasms’ the loud blonde was always raving about and claiming to get, especially with those new headphones of his.

“I keep telling you I don’t understand French.” Shouta grumbled, in a huffy mood over the sweet tunes his lover coaxed from him. He looked off to the side to hide his blush, retreating into his turtleneck, reminding you of a tortoise receding into its shell; in doing so, his eyes widened imperceptibly, though the way his pupils dilated, blowing wide as he finally became aware of your presence was unmissable. He drank in the object of his obsession with unquenchable appetence, having been denied the sight for far too long. Sustaining eye-contact, he let his head fall backwards onto the couch cushion, exposing his neck for Hizashi to devour; he pulled him closer so that their bodies were flush together before grinding up into the welcoming heat, a staccato of low sighs leaving him with each roll, earning an appreciative hum from the one ravishing his throat. Hizashi met him thrust for desperate thrust as he nipped and sucked the sensitive skin into blossoming hickeys. Aizawa wasn’t given long to admire as Hizashi recaptured his attention; sensing his distraction, he seized his chin so that they were once again facing one another, commanding his gaze like the diva he was. Shōta rolled his eyes, the corner of his lips twitching up into a smirk.

“There’s no need, baby! Not when I could just show you.” His words were smooth as silk and caused a delighted shiver to run up Aizawa’s spine, his toes curling at the deep velvety tone they were delivered in. Grabbing a handful of blonde tresses, he pulled the other down for an impassioned kiss; the effect was instantaneous, Hizashi squealed happily, groaning his approval against his spouse’s lips, a sweet little cry Shōta was all too pleased to swallow. A frisky kitty, and feeling particularly mischievous, he yanked. hard. So hard in fact you’d be surprised if the DJ’s neck hadn’t snapped. “ahhhHHHHH-!” The force behind the tug disconnected them and Yamada’s shout of ecstasy resounded throughout the entire apartment. The floor vibrated beneath your feet and your ears rang from the reverb. You clutched them, dropping to your knees in a vain attempt to block out the sound, and your eyes scrunched with the effort. You knew he had a set of pipes, but damn. You couldn’t even hear your own thoughts. Everything was shaking, your body hummed, and it felt like your brain was being scrambled. So focused on trying to tune him out, you failed to notice that the foundation had stopped quavering; but you caught on when you’d regained the ability to hear yourself think. Rising shakily, you allowed your arms to fall; looking back at the pair, you saw Aizawa with his hand around Yamada’s neck. “-eckk—!” The sound cut off at the hand gripping his throat “The neighbors are going to complain,” and it only tightened, eliciting a choked moan from Hizashi. “again.” With no small amount of effort did he raise his head in order to flash his man a cheeky smile, straining against the grip holding his hair back. “But I bet they know your name, handsome.” He reared forward, diving back in with a ferocity that knocked the erasure hero back, hailing him with a flurry of perfervid kisses and leaving a few blonde strands behind. Shōta received him with open arms, and you winced as you heard their teeth bash together in Hizashi’s voraciousness. It didn’t escape your notice how his voice had lost its cunning. His once honeyed words ebbed into hoarse calls of his partner’s name—lacking his usual loquacity.

For someone whose jobs centered on the use of his words, they seemed to be failing him; desperate strangled noises left him between each frenzied kiss. In his urgency, he tugged impatiently at Shouta’s bottoms, you shifted awkwardly, debating if it would best to try again at a different time. Aizawa caught your movement from the corner of his eye.

Although he didn’t mind an audience, he felt he should let his husband know.

Removing the hand from Hizashi’s neck, he used it to gently push him back, their kiss breaking with an audible smack—

“mmph!?”

Hizashi voiced his complaint, a whine built in the back of his throat as he once again tried to close the distance between them, blindly following his lips; Shōta dodged by holding a hand to the emcee’s face, stilling him. Yamada’s green eyes finally snapped open and he looked around in confusion.

“Wha???” He sounded so lost.

“Wha’s happenin’?”

Shōta’s head craned towards you.

“We’ve got company.”

Hizashi followed his line of sight and those emerald eyes landed on you. They were misty and he was still a bit disoriented; It took him a second to register but after blinking the tears away his face lit up with gladness, a gasp left him and his hands clasped his mouth. He shrilled in elation, bouncing excitedly on his husband’s lap. He shot to his feet, fighting the desire to rush over and squeeze the life out of you in an affectionate hug. The DJ waved exuberantly instead, “Hey, babygirl!” His voice was rough, a cough racking his frame before he continued, ”H-how are you?” He questioned softly, carefully, treading lightly, as if you’d scurry off if he so much as raised his voice or moved too quickly.

His face glowed from their gameplay turned hot and heavy. You knew better than to assume it was out of modesty because you had learned they held no shame. You recalled one morning where you’d awoken to tremors; the penthouse shook so violently you thought there was an earthquake. In your half-awakened state you’d panicked, ripped off your covers and sprinted into the living-room spouting about said earthquake, and you felt like you were in the Twilight Zone when Aizawa snorted into the back of his palm, snickering in amusement amidst your tirade, he’d looked as if he were battling laughter, his shoulders trembling. Hizashi rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly as he hurriedly explained there was nothing to be alarmed for. He’d just gotten a little carried away and—! Unable to contain himself, Shota had burst into peals of uncontrollable laughter as the hilarity of the situation finally became too much for him, something you’d never seen him do, you felt like you’d witnessed an anomaly. He seemed to shock even himself, his hands flying to his mouth, endeavoring to smother the traitorous noise to no avail, meanwhile Hizashi whined and hid his face in his husband’s shirt, said man wheezing and gasping for air, jostling him with each breath. It was then that you’d stopped to take in their position. You’d soured at the conclusion you’d come to, as obvious as a slap in the face. Having leveled them with a glare, you’d turned and stalked black to your room, throwing a dirty look over your shoulder for good measure. Howls of laughter and frenetic apologies for disrupting your sleep played you out. A dull thump followed by frightened calls of a certain raven-haired teacher’s name could be heard, mirth having overtaken him and effectively taken him down.

No Shame.

The radio star always wore his heart on his sleeve, a trait you’d initially found charming; meaning you could practically see him restraining himself; Hizashi’s fingers danced in antsiness, wanting so badly to reach out for you; the fidgety digits drew your attention and he promptly clasped them behind his back, offering a disarming smile when your eyes flitted back to his face.

“Hello, kitten. Did you need something?” He wasn’t as barefaced as his companion with his delight at your appearance, though both his expression and words were filled with warmth, the latter holding a tinge of innocence as if he hadn’t known you were there all the while.

You’d been a bit moody the last few days, never hostile, just a bit more withdrawn, and they were ever so happy to see you up and about again, they were always happy to see you.

Your eyes squint at him but your head tips forward a fraction in what could barely pass for a nod.

“Looks like we’re gonna hafta put our game on ice.” The DJ commented, looking over his shoulder to regard his partner whose gaze was fixed on his ass. You couldn’t see his face, but you could hear the grin in Hisashi’s voice, “Enjoyin’ the view?” Shōta scoffed, scowling up at his husband as he crossed his arms. “‘Just luck’, huh?” Now that the voice hero was standing, he had a perfect view of his backside, it’d virtually been shoved in his face when he’d stood; while he’d initially given it a cursory glance, miffed at having it block his field of vision like a freaking solar eclipse, with how tight his pants were, he could make out the familiar shapes jammed into his back pocket.

“What can I say? With this ass I’m always winning.” Hizashi winked, and quick to change the subject he turned back to you, tossing a few pawns from his pockets and into the discarded pile.

“What’cha need, beauty queen?”

Oh god, by some absolute fucking miracle, you’d managed to drag your tired body out of bed and stumble into the sitting area with the full intention of demanding supplies, only to freeze up from a pang of embarrassment under the inquisitive gaze they pinned you with, now the subject of poignant interest.

“I...I need—um...”

This isn’t in any way going how you envisioned it would; you’d mentally rehearsed, you were gonna waltz in here and demand that they—if they wouldn’t let you leave, the least they could do was ensure your basic needs were accounted for, and you had every mind to tell them such; unfortunately for you, all that came out were stammers and soft squeaks resemblant of the pet name they so loved calling you.

“Kitten?”

Aizawa stood to join his husband’s side, both of them hanging on your words, patiently awaiting a response.

“I n-need,” It was so much more embarrassing than you’d thought, but it wasn’t like you had anything to be shameful about; what you were experiencing was natural and normal, and you refused to be ashamed over it, if anything they were the ones who should be ashamed for not taking into account that at some point you were going to require certain essentials; their claim after they’d swept you away was that they were hgoing to see to your every need, just ask, and you’d receive—how you’d never have to worry about anything ever again. In the current state of affairs, you didn’t think they were doing a very good job.

You just wished you could find the nerve to voice such concerns.

“uh...” no longer able to maintain eye contact, you looked off towards of the kitchen; your skin prickled, your head was pounding, and you were overheating. You felt light on your feet and in this moment you just wanted the floor to swallow you up; if it were possible, you’d recant every past rejected wish to Saint Nick in exchange for a new one, a vanishing quirk. ‘Cause no way were they letting you walk away from this. Not after you’d garnered their attention. This was a mistake. You couldn’t do this. Maybe you should just—

“Pumpkin?” More gentle prodding. “What’s the matter? You ain’t lookin’ too hot.” (Harsh jab from Aizawa) “Ow! You know that’s not what I—”

“I mean you always look hot—smokin’!” He quickly rephrased, “It’s just uh...ya look kinda...sick? Like yer gonna hurl.”

“It’s okay, Kitten. You can ask us anything.”

“Yeah! Y’now you can come ta us with anything.”

“I-“ Your world spins, and suddenly, you’re seeing topside. A momentary loss of balance, courtesy of the headache between your eyes, has them rushing to your side; one of them scoops you into their arms, instantly coddling you. You look up to see frightened green eyes, and a halo of blonde tresses that tickled your nose as they fell into your face.

Oh. It was Hi-Fi.

“My poor baby! Are you okay?!” He’s peppering kisses all over your cheeks.

A hand presses against your temple, it’s coolness giving you moderate relief. “She’s warm,” Low-Fi.

“Pretty kitty, please let us know what you need; whatever it is, we’ll do our best to provide it.” Shouta cups the side of your face, stroking your cheek with the pad of his thumb and Hizashi places a kiss on your heated forehead.

“All’s ya gotta do is phone in that request, listener!”

You burned with more than just a temperature. Indignation coursed through your veins, burning you from the inside out. You shouldn’t have to rely on them for anything. You’d had your own job, your own money, your own business; you hadn’t had to lean on anyone, loathed the very thought of it; and climbing the sharp-edged ladder of success—clawing your way to the top, lacerated palms and displaced qualms, you’d made certain you’d never again have to depend on another soul for as long as you lived. Dull from being doled disappointments, you were of the gospel that you couldn’t count on anyone but yourself; you bought your own things, you felt your own tits, a certified boss ass bitch. When you’d first started seeing the couple, it was you that picked up the tab despite their protests, you who wooed them with fancy gifts, reveling in their flushed expressions—and as flattering as it all was, how could you ever come to rely on them the way the heroes wanted if you had it all figured out? Quickly enamored, the pair was swift to offer you a room in the penthouse, their hearts burned whenever you were apart; but to their dismay you’d declined; you already had your own home, one you’d worked hard to obtain, taken the time decorate, a home you were unwilling to part with; and truthfully, you simply hadn’t been ready for such a transition. Lovely as their companionship was and as much as you joyed in their attachment, you’d only been dating them a few months, it was a little too soon for all that. Of course they were disinclined to accept your answer. They chipped, and chipped, practically took a sledgehammer to that ladder, and marveled as you fell spectacularly, like an angel falling from heaven, their angel, who fell right into their arms. And you watched as the life you’d built, and tried so hard to maintain came tumbling down, everything you tried to salvage crumbled to dust in your resentful un-relinquishing grip, and of course they were there to help pick up the pieces. The metaphorical scars, and phantom pains rendered all for naught. You hated needing anyone for anything, and they wanted you to rely on them for everything. The thought embittered you, of giving them exactly what they wanted, and despite your pride you swallowed that bitter pill; after all, no one can fill those of your needs that you won’t let show right?

“I...I need feminine products?”

Hizashi’s brows knitted in befuddlement, and you could practically see the cogs turning in his brain as he processed your words, mentally cataloging every sanitary item he’d purchased.

You had a plethora of bath and beauty products, he’d made certain of it. Shampoo, conditioner, facial cleanser, perfume, shaving gel, body wash, etc. He’d ensured your bathroom was fully stocked. “Songbird, sweetie, yer gonna hafta be a bit more specific.”

Maybe you could say it without actually saying it.

“Um. You know, like, feminine hygiene products?” You stressed, hoping they’d catch your drift, but they continued giving you blank stares.

The pair exchange a look, perhaps to see if the other was making any more sense of the situation than they were.

“You’re going to need to be frank with us, kitten.”

“Yeah! Rip it off, like a bandaid!”

“Ineedpadstampons,femininewipes,femininewash,andmaybeadouche?” Your face was on fire but it was impossible for them to misconstrue with how painfully candid you were. Stealing a glance, you saw they both sported similar blushes; Hizashi held a pink tinge around his nose that bled into his cheeks and Shōta adopted a rosy tint; their coloring more out of shame than embarrassment due to their oversight.

In a race to rectify their mistake, their voices overlapped, tripping over themselves to scramble for apologies.

“Oh my gosh, we’re so sorry, princess!”

“We’re very sorry, kitten. It was never our intention to-”

“-we’ll do better! Me ‘n Shou’ll be better about takin’ care-a you-!”

“-we hadn’t even considered—”

“-I promise! I swear—!”

“-just let us know what you need, just tell us and we’ll—”

“-Yes! Anything, anything at all-!”

You already did.

“-It won’t happen again, kitten. We promise—”

“-Oh god, I’m a fuckin’ failuuuuuuure.” Hizashi bemoans, having been the one in charge of your toiletries.

Their remorse was palpable and their guilt endless.

Although you shouldn’t, you were starting to feel bad for how much they were kicking themselves. Their self-flagellation was seriously taking the wind out of your sails; your own frustration paling in comparison. Not to mention you were still under the weather, and their constant back and forth was worsening your dizzy spell. Eagle eyed, Aizawa takes notice and undergoes the task of reigning in his husband, the blonde pressing impossibly close and nuzzling desperately into your neck, apology after apology spilling from his lips. Shōta grasps his shoulder, but to his surprise you beat him to it.

Your head inclined and a hand covered his mouth, halting his speech. The pain behind your eyes praised you. “Hizashi, you guys, it’s not that deep, stop being so dramatic.” He pulled back to appraise you, he didn’t seem convinced. “...I forgive you, okay?”

He lit up like a Christmas tree, perking up instantly. You were squished against his chest once more in a suffocating hug. A joyous shout of, ‘FUCK YEAH!’ had you cringing away from Hizashi as he fist pumped ecstatically.

“Not so loud, ‘Zashi.” Came a gentle reproof, resulting in another apology from the boisterous blonde.

“Sorry, lil listener.”

...

“Do you..uh...need ‘em right now?”

You nod.

“Cool! Cool! No problem-o! Uh...Just run that list by us again. Hit us one more time, baby!”

“You said it so quickly we hardly caught what was said.”

Heat rushed to your face. You couldn’t fucking do it again. The first time just about killed you.

They must have sensed your demur because the pros upped their persuasion.

“You don’t have to be so shy, kitten. We don’t mind. It’s really no trouble.”

“You don’t gotta get embarrassed, it’s only us!”

“We only want to provide for you.”

“Most guys don’t wanna hear about that stuff...” You were pretty sure they didn’t even know what those things looked like.

“Um, songbird? W-we aren’t, uh, it don’t bother us. Like, we aren’t grossed out or nothin’.” Usually loud and lively, Hizashi was soft-spoken and sincere as he gently clasped your cheeks, encouraging you to look him in the eyes. Taking your smaller hands in his own, Shōta pitches in as well.

“We can handle a little blood, it’s sort of unavoidable in our profession.”

When you’re stubbornly tight-lipped, the emcee proposes a different idea.

“K! How ‘bout you type out whatcha need in Shō’s phone? That way we’ll have a list to check off, make sure we don’t forget anything.” He looks to his partner to see if he’s down with the plan and Shōta’s already pulling out his mobile. “One of us should stay behind with kitten. That could have been a nasty fall.”

“Shō! Hold KitKat,” It’s an abbreviation of ‘kitty cat’ one of Hizashi’s many nicknames for you. “I gotta hit up Google.”

You’re carefully transferred to Aizawa; the hero plops into the couch with you in tow, sagging into the cushiony oasis. Once you’re settled in his lap, he hands you his phone; It’s new, sleek, black and already opened to the notes app; a bulletin greets you, the yellow bar blinking in and out of existence as it awaits your command.

“So which one-a us is headin’ out? We could all go, could do a pickup order?”

Any other time you would’ve jumped at the opportunity. But you felt like absolute trash. You weren’t interested in going anywhere but back to bed.

“I’ll go. I have a few things to grab anyways.” Figures. The erasure hero was even keener on keeping you indoors than his husband.

“Anything we need for the house? I might as well get them while I’m out.”

“Oh! Now that‘cha mention’ it, I could use some-” There’s a back and forth as they discourse on what supplies and groceries are low on stock, ingredients and meal planning for the following week; their chatter is drowned out whilst you busy yourself inputting the necessities you need into the phone with nimble fingers, tapping away at the large screen and carrying a certain finesse that impresses Shōta, the type of guy that just lazily swipes his thumb across the keyboard. He urged you closer with a delicate motion, complimenting your dexterity and gracing you with a chaste peck on the cheek. They ask your opinion on numerous things, how you felt about particular dishes, if you were running out of anything, if you wanted Shōta to bring you back something, et cetera. Satisfied with your list, you handed the device back to its owner for him to pocket. “-babe, you already know munchkin hates carrots.” Hizashi chided, rooting through the cabinets and taking inventory.

“He needs a vegetable, you can’t allow him to eat junk all of the time. He’d live off of pizza rolls if you let him.”

“Hey!” He whirls around, “My meals are perfectly balanced! An’ comin’ from you?! Do you even know how much sugar we go through?? Not to mention the coffee I’m constantly havin’ to restock??”

Aizawa cuts his eyes at him. “This isn’t about me.” He reaches forward and nabs his mug from the table, taking you with him and taking a very long, very loud obnoxious sip. Hizashi just looks so done at the display. He chases it down with a marshmallow and slaps the ceramic against the glass once he’s finished. “My diet is perfectly healthy.”

“Mmhmm,” the emcee crossed his arms, leaning against the counter, “are you done?”

You’re jostled again as he pushes the mug forward. “This needs more sugar.”

Yamada sighs, coming to swipe it from the coffee table. And as he’s heading back to the kitchen, Shōta adds, “More whipped cream and marshmallows too.” A dramatic groan of, “Ughhhhhhhhh! I hate it here!” is given in response. You sit in silent amusement at their banter, enjoying the homey atmosphere.

Aizawa observes as you become increasingly agitated, squirming and fidgeting in fits and starts, restless. Quiet huffs accompanying each jerk. “Is something the matter, kitten?” “Uh...it’s-” You shift, and he isn’t sure if it’s bashfulness or something different. “It’s just cramps.”

“Tummy troubles?”

“Aw, d’ya want some Tums? Pepto Bismol?” Mic asks, carrying a plate of cookies. They’re placed on the table and Shouta’s mug is returned to its coaster. You lean forward, reaching for one of the confections. The aroma had teased you since the moment you’d left your room, titillating your tastebuds. Hizashi looks confused-concerned, when you grimace and fold into yourself, nursing your midsection. Not touching, only hovering protectively; your pelvis had protested the movement, making its disapproval known by way of stabbing pains.

“Noooo,” Your response was moaned, a lamentable sound that pierced their hearts. “not stomach pain, menstrual cramps.”

“Oh.” Their eyes leapt toward one another, sharing a panicked glance. “Well, we...might have some Tylenol?” Shōta’s words were optimistic though his tone was laced with uncertainty; he looked to his husband for confirmation. “Would that be okay?”

“Yeah! Uh...maybe? I dunno.” While his reply had started enthusiastically, a hype man at his core, he quickly lost confidence. It bled into hesitancy near the end. “I’m sure we got some though, lemme go check!” He raved, keeping the faith.

“Cutie ‘tootie?” There’s light rhythmic tapping at your knee. Mic squats beside you, his palm upturned as he presents you with a cookie. You gladly accept, thanking him. After administering a loving pat on the head he’s standing and off in search of pain relievers.

Suffice to say, you made quick work of the treat.

Shō was pleasantly surprised when you fastened his arms around your waist, wearing them like a seatbelt. You secured one of them in place with your own arm, as if he’d ever withhold his touch from you. You slipped your fingers between his, intertwining them together. He allowed you to do so, to manipulate him however you saw fit, willing and pliable under your ministrations. He flexed them, wondering at the sight, and sensation of his hands in yours. There’s a dusting of rouge to his cheek as he squeezes back.

——————————

“What did you find?” The erasure hero asked, drowsily watching his other half pace to and fro, Hizashi’s faced glued to his phone.

“Says it’s okay, how many ya want, honey bunch? One or two?”

“None.”

They glance at you as you’re quite adamant about not needing pills, and Shota begs to differ. The death grip on his hand spoke otherwise. And he thinks, as you clamp down on him after another contraction, that he knows what it’s like to be a husband in a delivery room. Something he never thought he’d experience. He isn’t complaining, anything to help ease your discomfort; he’d offered reassuring presses of his own, but he’d be lying if he said he understood your opposition.

“But-!” Hizashi looks put out, disappointed. “Dont’cha want somethin’ to take the edge off?”

Your head shakes negatively, and he frowns. He goes to insist but he gets one from his husband as well. He sighs, snagging a set of keys from the rack.

You’re honestly surprised they let it go so easily, they never let things go. In hindsight, you supposed you should’ve been a bit more suspicious, but you’re just glad they dropped the subject. You didn’t feel like fighting them on it.

“I’ll go warm up the ride, you warm up with princess before ya jet!” He leans down, and Shōta meets him halfway as they share a kiss. “‘Kay caffeine king?”

“Mmm.” He hums an affirmative, burrowing further into the couch, enjoying the heat you donate as you too make yourself comfortable by cuddling into his chest. His eyes close, and there’s a click indicating the blonde’s departure.

You sat for a bit, listening to his steady breaths, the lull of his heartbeat, rocked by the gentle rise and fall of his chest. You twist around to view him, and he cracks an eye open to regard you when you stir. You spend a good chunk of time simply taking him in, with him doing the same, and you aren’t sure whether it’s the lighting, music, the complicated feelings you can’t suppress—because as angry and frustrated as you are, you still care for them, terribly so, or perhaps it’s the cloying sap you tended to become around this time of month, but you find yourself extending a hand to brush his bang aside, revealing that handsome face you’d grown so fond of. You wished he’d show it more often; it was too cute to be hidden under all that fringe, and you tell him so.

“I like being able to see your face,” Deft fingers card through his hair, and using both you fashion the fluffy mane into a faux bun, “I’d love to see it more often. You should wear it up every once and awhile.”

His lidded eyes are wide on yours, a blush quickly blooming, and suffusing to his ears, cute little things you rarely ever see.

“Means I’d get to praise that pretty puss,” Shouta’s pupils are dilated, and you swear they’re expanding with each compliment as he basks in your hero-worship.

“and it means I get to do this!”

You smooch his forehead, another thing you’re usually unable to view. Like before, the erasure hero withdraws into his sweater, muttering a low, “Thanks, kitten...” His delivery is soft and tender, one of those diminutive winning smiles tugging at his cheeks. He’d always been so fun to tease, responsive and susceptible unlike his blonde counterpart, whose life’s mission was to see you self-implode. “You look so pretty in pink, sweet prince.” It was nice to flip the script now and then.

His dietary habits a sore point of contention, he grumbled, shaking his head so that his hair fell into his face once more, hiding his deepening flush from scrutiny. You toss it up again.

“There’s that cute face!” You coo, smiling broadly. Aizawa slouches even further into the couch, burrowing deeper into the cottony collar of his pullover. “Aww, cutie!zawa!” A thumb caresses his face, just below his eye where his scar lies, and ever so gently do you inch forward, and with as much care as you can muster, you kiss him, your lips meet the mark in a delicate press. But It wasn’t a blemish, it was the testimony of his survival. It did nothing to detract from his rugged beauty; in your opinion it only enhanced it. “This is your cutie mark!” You excitedly declared. You’re struck with the realization that if it hadn’t been for his tenacity, his strength, there’s a genuine possibility he wouldn’t be here with you now. Overcome with emotion, you crush him in a firm embrace, dolling adulation after adulation.

“You’re so strong.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

And despite everything,

“I’m so happy I was able to meet you. You and ‘Zashi.

“You guys...mean a lot to me.”

Weak, Shouta quivers in your hold; his Adam’s apple bobbed as he floundered helplessly to form an articulate response. His heart swelled with adoration, and he squeezed back just as tightly. Your sweet words were sending him, and having been left without your touch for a spell has him starved for your affections. “Can-” Your head raises at the wobbled utterance, and he connects your forehead with his, just barely able to restrain himself. His pupils are pulsing as he looks into your eyes—dilating back and forth, his gaze downright imploring. “May I kiss you?” An unspoken plea hung from his lips, and his words carried a noticeable tremble, showing just how affected he was. He eyed you with a reverence the likes you’ve never seen. You’re taken aback. Your breath falters, and you know it isn’t a platonic kiss he’s asking for. Anxious, your teeth worry at your bottom lip as you contemplated, those onyx pools track the movement, lingering perhaps a bit too long before his eyes met yours. He swallows thickly, “Please...?” He’s practically begging at this point. And to convey it he took your hand in his, guiding it to his throat where you felt palpitations dance wildly beneath your fingertips, showing you just what you did to him. He looked so vulnerable, so in need.

And he’s heartbroken when you pull away, withdrawing your warmth, and leaving him cold. “Kitten—” Shouta’s voice cracks, it’s a question, a plea, an extension of something that had been boiling beneath the surface, and it’s been a long time coming. He felt as if he’d endured an eternity without your loving-kindness, and after what felt like a lifetime were you finally sweetening back up to him, and bestowing the passion he’d pined for, the affection he and Hizashi panted after. You’d been so distant since they’d brought you home, and his heavy heart was breaking. Were you-were you upset with them?

You aren’t sure you’re comfortable with such an intimate gesture. Most of your days were spent in a domestic daydream, and while it was easy to fall into the illusion, playing house, and palling around, without fail, something always happened to shatter it, reminding you of the reality of your situation. In this case, needing items and being unable to go out and purchase them. Ordinarily, you have no issue with having whatever you required brought to you; you couldn’t say you were choked up over not having to endure crowded stores, and checkout lines that moved slower than molasses, but you preferred to buy those products yourself. It was so demoralizing to have to go up to them, like a child, and bring up your needs. The pair always gave your orders a once over, ensuring you weren’t ‘purchasing anything naughty’ ‘nothing you could get yourself into trouble with’ It felt like you couldn’t do anything without the heroes knowing about it. You probably couldn’t even pass a stool in this house without them knowing about it. And you just—didn’t think it was...healthy to feed into their delusions, you didn’t want them to think you were okay with what they’d done, and you weren’t sure where your relationship stood with them anymore, but like a fool you still had a soft spot for them, they’d long since carved a special spot for themselves in your heart, and because of that, you couldn’t stand watching his break in front of you.

Against your better judgement you cradle his face in your palm, he shivers and is instantly nestling into the soft touch, slumping forward to press himself even closer, singing low in his throat when your lips join, it’s hardly discernible, yet the vibration is unmistakable as he pulls you close, clutching your sides; uncontrolled moans were plucked from him with each candy-coated kiss you awarded. And all too soon were you drawing away to rest your forehead against his.

“Kitten, again.”

“Kiss me again.”

“Please?”

He made no move to initiate, only wishing, hoping, waiting, on you—for your reply. And, a purr rumbled from deep within his chest when you indulged him.

Hizashi bursts into the apartment eager to escape the cold and is greeted by his loving husband, whose hair is tousled, and in an even worse state of disarray than usual, which he finds kinda strange since it certainly hadn’t been that way previous to him leavin’ out. And stranger yet, a small saccharine smile played on the erasure hero’s lips. He looks between the two of you and internally gushes over the pretty picture you both painted; you cuddlin’ up on Shou, mussy hair...

Wait a minute.

Hizashi’s giddy squeal cuts out like a record scratch when he comes across the now empty plate.

“You guys...”

Neither of you even has the decency to look contrite.

“They were good, you’ve really outdone yourself.”

“I get sugar cravings around this time, they were amazing though.”

Compliments were the way to his heart, and was all it took for him to forget his disapproval and become starry-eyed, gasping a cute, “Really?”

“Yeah! You did awesome, Awesomeasaurus!”

“Aww, thank you, suga’pie! Though I gotta feelin’ that wasn’t the only sugar you were smackin’ on.” Mic teased, a knowing grin with too many teeth splitting across his face, and this time you do become abashed as Aizawa grinned right back like a cheshire cat.

They chuckle among themselves as the host with the most lifts you from Shouta’s lap with all the care of a mother tending to her newborn; he swoops in to steal a kiss, amused by the scandalized expression you pull. “Shouta can’t be the only one gettin’ kisses!” He nabs a couple more, stopping only when you tuck to the side to escape the barrage. “If he’s gettin’ kisses, then I’m gettin’ kisses.” He proclaimed, easing you down onto the cushions still warmed from the erasure hero’s body heat.

“Your chariot awaits, Prince of Slumberland.” A pair of keys are dropped into his hand, and his shoulder is bumped affectionately. Hizashi follows Shouta to the door, helping him into his jacket. The latter melts into the hug he’s given, and with a smack to the derrière, he’s sent off. Yamada is halfway across the foyer when he stops, looking as if he’d forgotten something; he spazzes, swinging back around, “WAIT!” He shouts, attracting the attention of Shota who was partially out the door. “Wait, wait, wait, wait,” He jogged up to his lover with a smile, “I forgot my goodbye kiss!” Shota’s face is cradled in his palms as he kisses his hubby on the lips. “You be safe, honey butter biscuit.” The home-room teacher smiles softly, covering Hizashi’s hands with his, “I will. Promise.” The kiss is returned, equally as doting; Aizawa gently removes his lover’s hands, pressing a kiss to the knuckle of each one before returning them. He’s starting out of the door again when another call for him to stop rings out. Shōta turns, wondering what he could possibly want this time. He wants to protest as his spouse lifts you, their darling shouldn’t be manipulated right now, even if she was handled with extreme care. Hizashi makes a short walk of the distance and is already presenting you to him, his husband’s beam is even brighter than before. “Can’t leave out, sugar snap pea!” Shota leans forward, and watches as you elevate your neck for what you thought he had in store; well, he has to keep you on your toes doesn’t he? He administers the endearment lower than anticipated, bestowing you a smooch on the lips as he’d done with Hizashi. He chuckles as you gingerly touch the spot, looking up at him owlishly. Cute. It’s a sentiment Hizashi echoes, although verbally. He adds another to your forehead, leaning over you to kiss the radio star one last goodbye.

—————————————

“Alright! Let’s get some food in ya, ginger spice!” Mic exclaimed, striding into the kitchen. His baby needed some grub and a few good snugs! He sits you on the island and his hands are a whirlwind of motion as he ransacked the cabinets, grabbing all the goodies he could find. And when he turns to face you he’s supporting an armful of mixed munches, an abundant assortment of eats. His neck is folded to house a packet of candy and there’s a bag of chips clenched between his teeth. “Vish should vast ‘til Shou gets home, vwatcha fink?” His goofy appearance and impeded speech is enough to have you cracking up. His smile radiated pride as he passed along the treats, “Can ya hold these for me, Sweet?” Arms full, you’re hoisted up and the radio star throws you a wink, “I already got a snack to carry.”

Upon entering the living area he lowers you, and the array is dumped on the table, it’s surface completely engulfed and no longer visible. It’s laid out like a food fanatic’s fantasy.

“C’mon, lil mama! Come cuddle with me!” Mic dove onto the couch, arms splayed open wide, making grabby motions towards you with his hands, his legs parting in invitation.

———————————

The drone of the television did little to distract you as the blonde had hoped, you were writhing in pain; your cramps had worsened as the night had progressed, increasing in both frequency and intensity, and all he could do was you hold you. Hizashi hugs you to his chest, providing snuggles. It’s unconscious on his part, but he’s squeezing you like a human-sized stress ball. All he can focus on is you, your pain, your misery, how useless he felt.

What does he do?

What could he do?

And as his thoughts begin to spiral he doesn’t even notice his grasp constricting, tightening and tightening until you yelp. The pressure is removed instantaneously.

“Ah! Sorry, songbird. Is your tummy tender?”

You and Mic resume cuddling without further incident, his grip tightens with each pained whimper, but never reaches the same intensity as before, both in an attempt to offer comfort and to assuage his own worry. Seeing his princess in pain was seriously throwing him off his game. And him not being able to do anything about it? He buzzed with nervous energy. His knee bounced anxiously, where the hell was Shō?! Another anguished groan and Hizashi answered with his own anxious whine,

“Do-do ya need anything? Are ya—ya sure you don’t want any pain meds?”

You’d snubbed any offers of pain relievers much to their disappointment and ever growing disquiet.

Okay, he’d admit that it was kind of precious how you always refused to take medication of any kind, the same way a child might, but you wouldn’t even go for the flavored stuff! If you wouldn’t do it for your sake he wished you’d at least do it for his. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take of seeing you like this; with each passing second he grew all the more fretful and evermore fidgety.

To his immense relief you end up asking for a heating pad, they have one surprisingly, hero work comes with its aches and pains! Sure their closest was a mess and Shōta was sure to get on him about it later but it was for their darling! A trashed closet was a small price to pay for their beloved’s comfort. The voice hero was so amped up to finally be of assistance that he nearly ate carpet twice in his haste to get what you’d requested. After very gently maneuvering you, he’d shot off towards their shared bedroom at break-neck speed. A shout of, “Don’t touch that dial!” Thrown over his shoulder.

From your spot on the couch, you heard the sounds of him tearing up the room, exaggerated groans and a victorious crow at his acquirement; and when he’d returned, he presented his prize proudly, like an energetic puppy craving praise. “Who d’ya love cuddle-bug?!” If he had a tail it’d be wagging. “Thanks, snug monster. I really appreciate it...” Your eyelids and tone are weighed heavily from the pain, it left you drowsy, with slowed movements, but you manage to smile up at him, and Hizashi thrills as he’s rewarded with a smooch. He’s tickled pink, and can’t even begin to hide the blush he’s sporting, he doesn’t even try. “Aw, ya know it ain’t no thang! Anything for you, cutie.” You stretch to get your fingers on the pad, eager for relief, however the blonde keeps it out of reach, an unidentifiable emotion twisting his features, his expression an odd mix of stress and desperation, panic flickering in his eyes. “No, let me! ...Lemme help you. Where do you need it?” You’re re-situated on his lap, and he gingerly flattens the pad against your lower abdomen; the soothing heat acted as a balm, loosening your tense muscles; you sigh, leaning into the sensation, covering his hand with yours to urge him closer. “That’s it, mama. Just let me take care of you.” You can’t help the gratified moan that slips past your lips, the warmth doing wonders for you, and Hizashi could see the tension fading from your body. “Feelin’ good?” He’s given a nod in response as you relax into him. The DJ releases a relieved breath of his own, finding solace in your improved condition. His rigid posture slackens. He lays his head atop yours, heaving another weary sigh, his nerves overstrung. “Daddy’s happy to hear it, baby...”

[pollylynn]

Title: Jitters WC: 2100 Episode: Always (4 x 23)

He was a fearful child. It’s a strange truth that he seldom thinks about, but he was, all through his childhood, very much about things that go bump in the night, about ghosts and boogey men and dedicated axe murderers who enjoyed a good long-term stalk first. He had early-onset vivid imagination and an absolute gift for winding himself up into a tightly wound ball of abject terror. He was sleepless, he had nightmares, he would sob uncontrollably with frustration when he simply didn’t have the words to tell anyone who might’ve listened—and people who might’ve listened were not exactly thick on the ground—all the hair-raising details of what, exactly, his mind had conjured up for him to be afraid of. 

On the rare occasions that he thinks about it now, he supposes—with an expertise born of the fourteen or fifteen or seventy-six pop psychology books he’d bought when Alexis was little, hoping he’d internalize their wisdom by virtue of mere proximity—that it makes sense: They moved a lot. He was alone a lot. The world, to him, was constantly new and unfamiliar. It was unpredictable and full of shadows, both literal and metaphorical. And it might not do wonders for his Master of the Macabre street cred, but it was probably inevitable that he would be a fearful child. 

He hasn’t thought about this truth in a while. He seldom thinks about it, but if he had to put a date on it, he thinks the last time he might have thought about what a fearful child he was would have been a year ago, almost to the day. It would have been the night her father showed up with a misguided plea to save his daughter’s life. 

Jim Beckett had shown up on the doorstep of a virtual stranger and emptied his minimal store of small talk right out of the gate. He’d told a story of her that sounded so emblematic of her and so instantly true that his own fingers had itched for pen and paper. She would not allow herself a night light. Whatever she was or was not afraid of, she simply would not allow herself the comfort of a night light. He’d felt the unfamiliar urge to confess then, as strong as the need to write, he’d felt an alien tug at parts of his mind that he has always been so careful to keep quiet. 

It’s so odd, now that he thinks about it, how something like a compulsion had come over him in a moment that it would be gross understatement to call inopportune for unburdening himself.  But he had really wanted to tell the man all about the fact that  he had been a fearful child, that he had worn out always-on button night lights and cartoon character night lights and night lights he’d steal from the living room, from his mother’s room, from friends’ houses or literally any place he could get his hands on them. He would plug them into every available socket in whatever room happened to be his that week. 

 He had wanted to tell Jim Beckett the halting, agonizing story little Ricky Rodgers, age eight, trying to toughen himself up with darkness, how he’d saved up his allowance for a night light with the quickest switch his hardware store tests had found. He’d spent weeks—absolute weeks—forcing himself to flick it off, lying there with his finger on the switch, trying to count in slow, measured breaths to see how long he could make himself go. One . . . two . . .threefourfive flick. 

Yes. That’s the last time he thought about it. He’s sure of it now. He has spent a full year not once thinking about what a fearful child he was, how he’d had to learn to cope with it on his own, how he never actually learned to cope, because what he does is he ignores it. He pushes it deep down and locks it away. He pretends, with the full force of his early-onset, carefully cultivated imagination, that there’s not a thing in the world to be afraid of. 

That was a mistake. 

****************************

He is, not to put too fine a point on it, losing his shit over fear right now. 

She is afraid. She has been afraid all year, and she has not allowed herself the comfort of a night light. She has not, for an instant, tamped the fear down through sheer force of will and decided that there is not a thing in the world to be afraid of. 

He has not thought of this. He has, somewhere along the way, allowed himself to . . .what? sublimate that same fear into the manly emotion of anger? A year ago, he was afraid. When Jim Beckett came to him, when Roy Montgomery stood before him, when the boys, and Lanie, and every last person in their overlapping lives turned a heavy stare on him to let him know that it was up to him to make her save her own life—yes, he was fucking afraid then. 

And he was afraid afterward. He was starkly terrified every single day, until weeks stretched into months, until—through the toxic alchemy of a soul-deep wound inflicted by her silence—he wasn’t afraid any more. He was livid, he was furious, he was anything but afraid, despite the fact that he saw red blossoming on her parade gloves every time he was fool enough to close his eyes. He saw the wicked geometry of the rifle resting with sickening ease on Esposito’s palms. 

He— whatever lies he might have told himself—was afraid every second until the months passed, until his phone rang, until the mysterious Mister Whoever dropped a night light right into his lap. He could control the situation. He could steer her away. He could finally do what every damned person who knows her, in this realm and the next, seems to think is his sacred duty: He could keep her safe. 

But her phone never rang. She never had a night light dropped right into her lap. And she wouldn’t have taken it anyway. 

And he is watching her now, so afraid. He is seeing her now as he should have been seeing her this whole last year. There are shadows under her eyes. There’s a brittle quality to her voice, her movements, her weight in the world. She has wondered how? when? who? will it hurt? will it hurt again? 

He is losing his shit over the wages of his own fear, and he doesn’t even have time for that, because she wouldn’t take the night light. She won’t take the night light. 

She sublimates her fear into fearlessness. She transforms it into determined, reckless action. She has been chaotically afraid all this time, and now that fear has found form. She cuts off every avenue of escape. She will not tell Gates. She will not trust anyone. She will run at this, headlong and alone, just like her father knew she would, just like Roy knew she would, just like he has, all this last year, known she would the minute his secret saw the light of day. 

And it comes terribly to light. 

It is the only option left to him and the gash it tears in the fabric of their lives is unspeakable. There is one last fear—one shivering leaf falling to earth—when she looks up at him with shadows dark beneath her eyes and she asks what she already knows. 

Are you a part of this? 

It’s gone before he can choke out his answer. It is transformed into the tectonic force of her anger,. 

He begs her to find another way. He pleads with her in words he should have used a year ago. He begs her to hold her life dearer than this thing that is terrible and fearsome and more than anyone should have to bear. He begs her to see that for all that, it is over and throwing herself on the pyre cannot bring her mother back. 

He begs her, and the last fear was not quite the last. He begs her to think of him—of everyone who loves her—and it is not enough. 

And there is his worst fear realized. Nothing could ever be enough. 

***********************

He is basking in a shower of silver sparks. He is basking in the thrill of new-born fear, sizzling, insistent, and wondrous. 

He is afraid to touch her. She is sleeping at last and her poor body is a mass of welts and bruises and cruelly broken skin. Her glorious body is not of this world. He is afraid—he is certain—that if he gives into the urge to trail his fingers over the barest inch of it, she will shimmer out of sight. 

He touches her anyway. He finds uninterrupted skin and drags the pad of his thumb over it. She stirs and groans. Her brow furrows in the almost-absent light of the bedroom and now he’s truly afraid. He is positively trembling because who knows what she’ll do. Who knows what she is like when she wakes without a tiger in the next room? 

He knows. His life flashes before his eyes a hundred times as she falls on him with such ferocity that he dares to laugh into the crook of her shoulder as he thinks that they’ll have to wait until next time or the time after that to do it without the tiger. 

He holds her, afterward—after what excruciatingly, wonderfully seems like the year of the tiger. He takes the bold move of winding his arms around her and pulling her body against his. He’s grateful there are explanations other than abject, all-consuming fear for why his heart is thumping so hard against her skin. He is as grateful as any member of the faithful gathered at week’s end that she has no reason to ask if he’s afraid she’ll clock him for having the audacity to snuggle. (If he were wearing boots, he would be quaking in them at the possibility that she might clock him for having the audacity to snuggle.) 

She drifts off to sleep again, with her ear pressed to his thumping heart. He lies absolutely still, too fearful of too many delightful things to even want to move. 

This is genuinely terrifying. 

She is here with him. She wants him more than she wants her mother’s murderer. He is enough, and this is his greatest fear realized, too. She thinks he’s enough. 

His stomach is in knots. Prickles of fear race up and down his skin. His mind is knocking at every available door, poised to announce that this is a terrible idea, that he is a fraud, that the two of them are doomed, that she must have meant to knock on the door of the apartment across the hall, that she has a brain tumor or ergot poisoning or she’s been taken over by an alien life form with exceptionally low standards when it comes to sex partners. His mind is positively tap-dancing through the tulips, and each tulip represents something he urgently needs to spend some time being afraid of. 

But he is not spending time on any of those things. Oh, he is afraid. Kate Beckett is in his bed and fear is the only thing that might help him survive the night. 

He is afraid he won’t be able to keep up. 

He’s afraid she’ll discover where he’s ticklish. 

He’s afraid he’ll discover where she’s ticklish and he won’t be able to resist. 

He’s afraid of morning breath and bed head and whether or not he snores. 

He’s afraid that if either of them moves the bed will spontaneously collapse out of spite for all all they have put it through in the last few hours. 

He’s afraid that he might have to leave the warmth of her body to pee. 

He’s afraid that physics—because physics is a jerk—dictates that he cannot make her coffee and stay here with their limbs all tangled up in pleasant confusion. 

He is blissfully afraid of the hundred awkward moments they’re going to blush their way through when morning comes and he’ll say and she’ll say something dorky and ridiculous, because this is scary. 

It’s so scary, and he’s basking in it. He’s basking in the thrill of new-born fear, sizzling, insistent, and wondrous, in a shower of silver sparks. 

A/N: Hallucinatory tigers ain’t got no morphousness at all. 

images via homeofthenutty

[wallwriterstuff]

Teeth || Demetri Volturi x Reader ||

A request from @volturidoll13 that is continued from this headcanon right here ——-> Demetri Reacting to a Stimming Reader <——-. I hope I’ve done you justice once more with this one chickadee :D </b>

Part 2: This fic

Part 3: Control (fic)

Warnings: TW for anxiety. Readers stimming will stem from anxiety, if you are having a rough time with yours right now be careful reading this one, and please know you’re not alone! I guess maybe a warning for biting to? There’s some biting going on.

Words: 2620

Summary: It’s been a little over two months since Demetri discovered your stimming. He’s remained vigilant ever since, keeping your anxiety at bay with a whole host of tips and tricks he’s learned over the course of your time together. The one thing he cannot stop is the march of time, and yours is running out fast…

You weren’t sure what had made you so nervous back then, why Demetri finding about your autism was such a big deal, why you were so afraid your stimming would be an issue between you both, that your anxiety and it’s side effects would somehow ruin his perception of you. In reality, telling Demetri the whole truth had been the best thing you had ever done. His sensitivity was astounding to you, because he really was diligent in checking in with you and keeping things as calm as possible in your now shared room – your baths had become a now weekly occurrence. He never treated you like you were made of porcelain either despite all his little interventions, no, he whole-heartedly encouraged your every attempt to explore and integrate yourself into the Volturi with your new found confidence, but when you needed the support he was always prepared.

Your newfound confidence came with a price.

After just a week of venturing out of your shared room you had been called to the throne room, a terrifying moment in itself given you had met them only once before to explain why you hadn’t been bleeding out with the rest of your tour group on the floor, and Aro had taken your hand with a sickly smile before joyfully exclaiming something in Italian you had had no idea how to go about translating. That was two months ago, and now you had only a single month left to live before you joined them in their immortality, perpetually frozen as you were, never moving forward, never evolving. The concept was terrifying given the stories you’d heard of newborns. You didn’t want to hurt people or be that volatile little newborn who became violent on a whim. You didn’t want to feel the inferno in your throat begging you to commit unspeakable acts of cruelty against a race you were currently still apart of.

A month left of mortality.

A month left before you became someone entirely new.

Felix’s sudden grunt snapped you out of that particular reverie, and you blinked at the bright sunlight invading your eyes despite the shade you had situated yourself in under a twisted old red maple, planted in Didyme’s honour oh so long ago and still going strong thanks to Aro’s tender loving care. They had chosen to sit beneath the branches simply because it made their skin sparkle less, which was far easier on your eyes and far less distracting since you had a tendency to try and rub off Demetri’s sparkles, like they were glitter on his skin you could just remove. Jane was smiling at your giant friend, whose teeth were clenched tight before he suddenly relaxed and shot her a glare.

“Now now children play nicely.” Demetri chided from beside you. He’d been sat a while, smoothly redirecting conversation from you when he saw your attention falter. You had been zoning in and out a lot the past few days, your mind clearly elsewhere. He’d kept half an eye on you as the twins debated a book they’d been reading the past week, Felix teasing them as was his usual manner until Jane caved to the temptation to cripple him with her trademarked glare. You clearly were not okay, but you hadn’t come to him to say as such just yet, so he’d not pressured you into talking. Perhaps after this afternoon he should? You usually jumped at any chance you got to spend time with them all, enjoying the social interaction after the long days you spent either studying Italian or with them absent performing duties you would soon help them undertake.

“What do you think Y/N? You said you’d read The Hunger Games before, what do you think of the idea that the death of Primrose is symbolic of the death of the last of Katniss’s innocence?” Alec questioned. The boy was equally as perceptive as Demetri, having found himself insatiably curious since the day Demetri had quietly spoken with them about it to ensure they didn’t harass you, and consequently had gone on to read everything he could get his hands on about your condition. It was painfully obvious to all of them your head wasn’t in the conversation but none of them brought it up, instead finding ways to lead you seamlessly back into the group when you wandered off. Your brows furrowed as you tried to think over Alec’s question, but your mind was pulled in too many directions at once. You were so focused on the dark thoughts swirling around your future immortality that your mind struggled to conjure the image of the book cover, never mind its contents.

“Erm…I don’t really…she lost it way before that.” You stumbled your way through the answer and it was audible to everyone there the way your teeth clanked together when your jaw clenched. You did your best not to flinch as Demetri cast you a concerned glance. You’d been doing that a lot, your teeth gnashing and grinding as you clenched your jaw over and over. It was a tic he had seen before, though not quite as frequently as this, and it set alarm bells ringing in his head as a thousand articles and memories hit him full force. Alec hummed, not looking entirely like he agreed with you while Jane grinned, triumph in her eyes.

“Ha! See brother, I told you!” she didn’t seemingly notice the way you flinched, teeth gnashing audibly once more at her exclamation. Alec’s face was immediately taken over by a scowl, and the pair were bickering once more while Felix watched on with obvious amusement. Demetri had given you his sole attention instead, tuning out their argument to instead take notice of the way the muscles in your jaw moved, your gaze distant and entirely unfocused as you lost yourself to your thoughts again. He didn’t actually think you were aware of the way your hand moved until he gently snatched it mid-air. You blinked, staring uncomprehendingly at the frozen fingers clasped around your wrist, centimetres from your open mouth that you quickly snapped closed. Demetri made no comment after that, sliding his hand up to intertwine your fingers together and squeeze your palm lightly.

You squeezed back with a weak smile, mentally already berating yourself for your behaviour. You hadn’t even noticed you were about to bite yourself but now you had you could feel the way your jaw ached, the entire lower part of your jaw tense from the amount your stimming had overworked it that afternoon. Demetri soothingly ran his thumb in circles over your knuckles but even his cool touch wasn’t enough to drag you from your misery today. You had less than a month to live and there was so much you wouldn’t get to do after that. You had always wanted to travel to try some of your favourite foods in their home contexts – you could only imagine how good authentic Chinese food would taste. You wanted to sleep in a five-star hotel just to see what a memory foam mattress might do to improve your sleep.

It was all trivial stuff (you were painfully aware since Caius had told you so when you’d brought it up) but they were simple things for your bucket list, you dared not even consider the big dreams you had because they would be impossible once you were-

“Ah ah ah.” Demetri caught your hand again. He still held one in his grip but the other had whipped up to make it’s way into your mouth. You completely disregarded his warning, a burning need inside of you driving your head forward in an effort to clamp your teeth around your finger, sure in the knowledge it would bring some relief if you could manage it. Demetri didn’t let you, and your head quickly turned for his hand instead. He didn’t comment when your teeth almost broke trying to break through his skin. You immediately recoiled, both horrified and mortified at what you had done, but despite the fact you wouldn’t meet his eyes, Demetri pulled you close to his chest and kissed the top of your head.

“I’m sorry, I-“

“What have I told you about apologising to me about this?” he tutted, lifting your chin with one of his index fingers. He quickly had to let go when your hand flashed up to your mouth again, desperate to chew down on something.

“To stop apologising. Sor-er…I…” you cringed, the apology ready to fall from your lips but your fear of disappointing him latching it’s claws into you and making you bite down on your tongue instead.

“You never need to apologise to me for this my love, I love every part of you, even the parts of you you struggle to love yourself.” Demetri assured you quietly. Your teeth began to grind once more because what if he didn’t see you that same way after your change? What if your crimson eyes and still heart were abhorrent to him since he revered your human-self so much?

“Can we go?” you mumbled, your head spinning with all the worrisome thoughts tumbling about it. Demetri searched your face briefly as he nodded, very well aware that this wasn’t something he could encourage you to keep fighting and you needed to tap out now and recover.

“Of course. Excuse us you three.” He glanced to them briefly, knowing they’d have heard your quiet conversation anyway so to lie would be pointless. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at them, too embarrassed by your stimming today to meet their eyes. You’d bitten your vampire mate in front of them, after all.

“Thank you.” You mumbled, keeping your head down as you walked along beside him. Demetri hadn’t let go of one of your hands, squeezing gently every now and then to try and encourage you to channel your anxiety into your hand instead of your mouth. Perhaps he ought to buy you a stressball? You’d liked the last one, though it had disappeared somewhere around the castle and sadly, his gift only worked on people and not tracking down inanimate objects.  

“Don’t thank me yet, might I give you some advice?” he enquired. You looked up at him, your expression inviting him warily to speak, though you weren’t sure what he could add since this was your lived experience, and one he had only read about. “As you go to bite down open your mouth a fraction wider, it will allow you to clamp your teeth into a wider surface area and hold your prey stiller.” He advised, half a smirk dancing on his lips. He was failing abysmally at trying to hide it.

“I – excuse me?” you were somewhat astonished he’d given you advice on how to bite yourself better. What happened to your caring mate? The one who did his best to help you calm your anxiety. The one who held your hand on nights it felt like you couldn’t breathe?

“I thought it would be sound advice,” he said, giving up on his efforts now to fight back his smirk, “As my little vampire in training, you need to know how to bite down properly. If I had been your prey just now I would have easily escaped, and you would be left hungry.” You stopped stock still, eyes bugging a bit in your head as your brain just…stopped working.

“What…did you just call me?” you asked. Demetri had walked on ahead as if nothing was wrong, but he paused to turn back towards you now with a shit-eating grin on his face, crimson eyes sparkling.

“My little vampire in training. Unless of course, you would prefer puppy? They chew on things to, no?” he tilted his head at you while your jaw dropped. Just for a brief moment there was clarity in your head, the sheer absurdity of his comment punching through all your anxious thoughts. You felt you should be insulted, was it an insult? Coming from someone other than Demetri maybe it would be but this was the man who listened to every little thought in your head, wiped away every tear and held you while you cried. No, Demetri could never do you harm, whether it was with words or fists he was bound to protect you always, he was incapable of insulting you meaningfully.

“Your little – Demetri!” you scolded. God did your jaw ache. He chuckled.

“Alright alright forgive me…though can I say, I feared your bite far more than Felix’s.” he held out his hand to you and you automatically sidled up to slip your palm against his, Demetri turning you both back in the direction of your shared room before you began to walk once more.

“Felix’s has bitten you?” you asked, your curiosity sparked.

“Oh yes. You see, when I first joined the Guard Felix was assigned to my combat training. He won every round. I, however, am a quick learner, and once I began to pick up his teachings I won my first spar against him quite easily…and the one after that, and the one after that…he gets bitey when he loses.” He revealed. You bit your lip, fighting back a smile as you imagine the hulking man tossed onto his back by your own, lithe tracker. It was a funny enough sight in itself, but adding the image of him lunging with teeth barred to gnaw on your mate was even funnier. It should have been frightening but you knew the gentle giant too well to think he would ever attack his comrades with any malicious intent.

“Alec best watch his back then, he’s getting close to Felix’s high score on Crash Bandicoot.” You mused. Demetri snorted briefly.

“Yet another fun story…Alec once locked himself in his room for three whole days when Jane picked up one of his games and completed a level he’d been stuck on for weeks on her first try.” He told you. Your smile grew a little wider, stretching across your face as you imagined the calmer witch twin throwing said hissy fit. Demetri continued his stories long after you entered your room, laying on his side with you opposite him as he regaled you with one story after another. Aro had once dropped a book on his foot after a late night of studying, looked around to ensure nobody had seen, and stuffed it back on the shelf so fast he had placed it back upside down. Jane had a beautiful singing voice but had been startled so badly by Felix interrupting her once she’d slipped right up the scale on the last word and tortured poor Felix for a whole hour straight for ruining her song.

Story after story you listened, enraptured by his smooth baritone while he played with your hair, soothing your turbulent mind as you focused on his words and his words alone. You might wake up tomorrow and find you were once more trapped in the cycle of anxiety that you were hard-pressed to escape one it got you in it’s clutches, or maybe this blessed moment of relief would last and tomorrow you would be free once more for a little bit longer until the next moment something you felt was too big too manage came along. For today, Demetri had lulled you to sleep against his side, your breathing slow and even for the first time that day. Whatever you had to face next, whatever challenges might come your way, you knew on your worst days Demetri would always be with you to help you overcome them, armed with all the latest mummyblog advice for you to rebuke.

[even-after-a-millennia]

the water will not claim me (she already has)

Andromaquynh fic about them and water throughout the years.  Huge thanks for 1k followers!

Read below or on ao3 here.

 I.

Water was hard to come by in the desert, but Andromache couldn’t let the woman she had found die from dehydration again.  Tilting her head back, she gave her the last bit of water from her waterskin.  Andromache watched as the woman swallowed weakly, eyes fluttering.  

Standing, Andromache grabbed one of her arms and hefted her over her shoulders.  She felt the woman’s weak exhalation of breath against her arm.  

And she walked.

Step after step, she moved closer to her destination.  On the way to finding this woman, unable to resist the despair she felt from her every time Andromache dreamt, she had found a small green area a day’s walk away.  With the added weight on her back, it took two mind-numbing, grueling days to return.  

Andromache kept moving, even as she felt the woman waste away on her back.  It would do no good to stop and check on her.  What could she do to help now?

She kept walking.

Finally, they arrived.  Andromache laid the woman gently propped up against a rock, then went to refill her waterskin.  The woman didn’t wake as she returned.

“Hey,” Andromache said, shaking her shoulder lightly.  No response.  Putting some water into her hand, Andromache brought it to the woman’s lips.  They parted, taking in the drink.  

Dark eyes drifted slightly open, unseeing.  Undeterred, Andromache lifted the waterskin to her lips and tilted it, letting the water dribble in.

The woman coughed, eyes coming alive as she realized what was happening.  She lifted an arm to reach for the skin, but Andromache easily batted it away.

“Slowly, slowly,” Andromache encouraged.  

Her voice must have cut through the haze of the woman’s mind, as she looked up at Andromache.

Their eyes met and Andromache felt the loneliness that she had worn as a shroud for centuries fall away as they gazed at each other.

II.

After the battle, they were all covered in filth and sweat.  Lykon was the only one of them that hadn’t suffered a fatal blow at some point and he loudly complained about their stench, laughter in his eyes.  They were all so used to one another that it was nothing to all undress and climb into the gentle river they found together.

“I will look for a meal,” Lykon said, clean long before either of them.

“Thank you, brother,” Andromache replied, taking a moment to just float in the slow movement of the water.

“I expect to see you for food before sundown!  Do not get so distracted you disappoint me!” he called as he walked away.  Andromache may have taken him more seriously if laughter hadn’t rang through his voice.

“Yes, yes, we promise…”

As soon as he was out of sight, Quynh pushed through the water towards Andromache, who turned instinctively to receive an armful of her love.

“Do you think we will actually get back for the meal?” Quynh asked.

“If not,” Andromache said, pushing Quynh’s long, wet hair away from her face, “we are lucky Lykon is more forgiving than we deserve.”

III.

The fact that Cairo’s public baths were divided for females and males was not a deterrence to Andromache’s little band of immortals.  In fact, it was somewhat of a blessing.  Despite loving each other for over three hundred years now, Yusuf and Nicoló still acted as if they had just wed yesterday.  

After they parted at the entrance, Andromache turned to Quynh and asked, “We were never so caught up in each other, were we?”

Quynh smiled, but her eyes were sad.  Andromache knew what she was going to say before the words left her mouth, as she knew who brought that look to her love’s face.

“I think Lykon would disagree with you, trái tim,” she replied.

Andromache scoffed, but moved to hold Quynh’s hand only to have their hands meet halfway.  They looked down, considered their intertwined fingers, then burst out laughing.

“Very well, I am bested.  We are just as bad,” Andromache said, pulling Quynh further into the bath.

IV.

England was dreary.  There was no other word for it.  Clouds hung above them with weak sunlight poking through.  It drizzled most days without end.  And people were dying of false accusations of witchcraft.

Their tiny house in the woods was their only sanctuary from the madness of the world around them.  Every day, they tried to help those they could.  And every night, they retreated back to their small one room with walls and a roof and collapsed together, soaked through and exhausted.

In the middle of the night, Quynh shook Andromache awake.

“What?  What is it?” Andromache demanded, instantly awake and weapon in hand.

“It is finally really raining, ánh nắng của tôi.  It is like a monsoon out there,” Quynh said, looking outside with a soft smile gracing her lips.

Andromache groaned and fell back into bed, dropping her ax back onto the floor.  “Wonderful, I am very glad.  May I sleep now?”

Quynh turned to her and shook her head, pulling her long nightgown off until she was just in her shift.  “We should not waste this weather.”

“What do you mean?” Andromache asked, instantly more awake.

Quynh walked slowly towards her and leaned down to whisper in Andromache’s ear.

“Dance with me.”

She turned and walked out the door.  In a moment, her shift was soaked through but she merely lifted her arms and face to the sky, letting the rain cascade down her.

Then she turned her head to look back at Andromache, sitting stunned in their bed as she stared at the woman who held her heart.

“Are you joining me?” Quynh asked.

Andromache had lived over five thousand years and over the millennia, she had developed a grace in her way of moving that came from battlefields and training.  That said, she scrambled out of bed and her nightgown in her rush to get out to Quynh.

In that moment, the ugliness of their day to day work faded from mind and all Andromache knew was Quynh’s laugh, her cold lips curled into a smile even as they kissed, and her arms around Andromache as they danced in the downpour.

V.

Andy hated coming back to England.  The rain seemed to mock her.

Of course, their assignment had been on the coast.  It was finished now, but still, she had come back to the water.  The vast ocean stretched out in front of her, crashing into the shore and soaking her bare feet.  Her shoes lay forgotten in the sand.

It had been two hundred years since they had given up the search.  More than that since she and Quynh had danced in the rain that night.  The ache was old, but here, in the ocean where somewhere in its depths, Quynh lay trapped and dying… that ache turned into a burn in her chest.

The waves at her feet were the closest she had gotten to touching Quynh in a very long time.

She knelt in the water, uncaring about the ridiculous clothes this century required her to wear.  When she got back to their safe house, she would don trousers and be freer.  For now, she let the layers of fabric soak through around her, weighing her down with each wave.

“Anh nhớ em,” she whispered, and the burn in her chest flared into an inferno.

Joe and Nicky found her there hours later.  The tide had gone out but still, she sat, soaked through and staring blankly out towards the ocean.

+1

As she settled into the jacuzzi bathtub in their latest Air D and D, or whatever Nile called it, Andy let out a deep sigh of relief.  While her muscles had already recovered from the strain of the mission, she still let the warmth soothe away any remnants of pain.  She leaned back and closed her eyes.

The bathroom door opened and closed but she didn’t have to look to know who was there.

There was a rustle of fabric and that, that made Andy turn to watch as Quynh took off her dirtied outfit.  Some things never grew old, no matter how much time had passed.

“Baths have truly come a long way in the time I was gone,” Quynh said, settling into the v between Andy’s legs.  The water splashed a bit as she moved, but as she settled, so did the small waves.

“The world is definitely better for it,” Andy agreed, dropping a kiss on her love’s bare shoulder.

It took them a long time to get here, Quynh’s back to Andy’s front, submerged in warm, scented water in the 21st century.

Andy may always resent the centuries taken from them and the pain they had both gone through to get to this moment.  But now, her arms around her heart long gone from her, she let those feelings fade away in the water and pulled her closer.

They soaked together, unspeaking, as calm as the water around them.

Translations thanks to @hottopicmonk on tumblr: trái tim - heart

ánh nắng của tôi - my sunshine

anh nhớ em - I miss you

[joonkorre]

@drarrymicrofic prompt: remake

not gonna say much on this. yall should find out what's going on yourselves :D. ao3

“What do you think, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco doesn’t need to think; he’s done enough of that in the past two months, since the day he opened his front door to see the strange woman’s sharp smile. But he thinks anyway, one last time before he answers.

He’d have to leave the wizarding world behind. Of course, it doesn’t have to be that drastic. However, if he doesn’t want his frequent disappearances to catch the Ministry’s attention, then it’s best to withdraw into the Muggle world altogether, as far from its control as possible. Mother has Aunt Andy, Teddy, and friends from her book club now, she’ll be fine with him visiting only a few days each year.

Other than that, there are no downsides. He has nothing to lose except maybe his life somewhere down the line, but everybody dies at some point, don’t they?

He lifts his gaze to the buzzing light on the ceiling, its shine cold and apathetic. To the mahogany bookcase, filled with tomes upon tomes full of ancient rites and rituals, of creatures considered ‘cryptid’ even to wizardkind. To the bookend that is shaped like a crow, which flaps its wings when its beak is tapped five times, unlocking the hidden safe behind the bookcase. The safe that stores all the actual research and data he’s collected, jealously and fearfully hoarded.

He doesn’t know everything, but he knows enough. He knows enough to be aware that the lore Pansy snorted at when he first mentioned them, the creatures Mother dismissed as another of her bored rich son’s new obsessions, are the same ones Unspeakable Granger narrowed her eyes at when she walked past his table in the canteen and caught a glimpse of his notes. He had a feeling then that he shouldn’t even make any indication that he was interested in these things, which was proven to be correct when Ministry personnel started loitering outside his office more after that day.

He doesn’t know everything, but he knows his findings are not safe in anyone’s hands but his. The Ministry still repeats its tendency to care more about itself than the common people. The Department of Mystery, practically its own entity due to how even the Minister is forbidden from accessing most of its files, has motivations he can’t comprehend, which means motivations he can’t predict. There is no way to know if his colleagues are truly interested in “that old wife’s tale, that Bigfoot, Cthulhu shite Malfoy’s into” or will report him to those who know how to deal with him, to Unspeakable Granger, to the Department of Mysteries. His findings are not safe in anyone’s hand but his.

But if he says ‘yes,’ they are.

Draco dips his quill in the ink bottle the woman—“Dr. Stewart,” she’s introduced, calm and sure—provided him and signs his name on the contract and its related documents. No hint of anything other than indifference is shown on her face, and he wonders how many others before him has she recruited.

Once his thumbprint has been collected, the last step of the process, he Vanishes the ink on his finger. Dr. Stewart raises a brow but says nothing more. She stands up, holding out a hand.

“Welcome, Dr. Malfoy. The SCP Foundation is glad to have you with us.”

Shaking her hand, Draco feels something slide into place at his new title. He smiles politely, heart thundering in his chest.

“Have you worked with wizards before, Dr. Stewart?” Draco asks as he starts packing the valuables at his work desk into his briefcase. Dr. Steward has come to the Ministry by Floo, and though she seemed a bit disconcerted after stepping out of the Ministry Public Floo #13, she didn’t hesitate to follow him to his office. Thus, seeing her reaction to a simple Vanishing spell has certainly been a bit strange.

Dr. Steward gathers the documents to secure in a folder.

“My colleagues have—some of them have Muggleborn and Halfblood relatives—but not me personally,” she answers. “My apologies, I still need to get used to seeing magic in… this way. Ironically, we have more luck with magic users from other dimensions than from our own, especially with what happened in recent history.”

The Second Wizarding War ended barely a decade ago. Its victims, both people and nature, still bleed. “I can see why you aren’t very keen on interacting with us up-close these days,” Draco nods, careful.

“Precisely,” Dr. Stewart says. “So, believe it when I say you’re the exception.”

Draco stiffens. “Thank you. I’m sorry, it’s still a bit hard to, ah, believe that.”

“You are the exception,” she says. “We need professionals in the occult, especially those who dabbled in the Dark Arts along with other types of magic. Not many wizards of your kind in Great Britain remember the Original Gods and Old Magic, but you have that link, whether it be through honest religious belief or just intensive research.”

She crosses her legs. “We’ve had our eyes on you for a while, Dr. Malfoy. We need someone who’s willing to look for the oddity in the mundane, and when our people heard rumours of the infamous Malfoy heir having a—highly accurate, by the way—fixation on conspiracy theories and cryptozoology, visiting various parts of the world in pursuit of those ‘tall tales,’ we knew we need your intellect.”

Draco doesn’t quite know what to say. He was sure everybody thought him unhinged; even Luna seemed off around him these days instead of enthusiastically rallying after his theories like she usually would, gradually gravitating toward Granger whenever they’re in the same room.

“Our goals are different; the SCP Foundation wants to keep humanity safe and alive, you want knowledge and just knowledge. But I hope you find yourself in your element while working with us, finally having access to all the information you’ve been working so hard to find out.”

She tilts her head just so, and Draco can tell she knows he likes what he’s hearing. His thirst consumes him, makes him risk, makes him sin. He has to go insane to stay sane. Despite the small price of most likely dying from working with dangerous anomalies at the Foundation no matter how pretty Dr. Stewart advertises it, every cell in his body sings at the chance to know what is lurking beyond the folds of reality.

He thinks of Mother, of Aunt Andy, of little Teddy, of Pansy, of Blaise. The vision of them killed, maimed, snapped from existence because he didn’t do anything to help makes his gut twist, his throat parched. He’d kill himself from the guilt, a well-casted Sectumsempra. He decides.

His goal is no different than the Foundation’s from now on, and he has no qualms about that. With this opportunity, he is free at last, free to do the work he knows is important, to help and change without outside interference.

He is reborn.

Draco’s back straightens, and he moves his wand this way and that, orchestrating a cacophony of tomes and devices to levitate from the heavy bookshelves to the duffle bag he brought along.

“Dr. Malfoy, did I not tell you where you’ll be stationed?”

Draco halts the objects’ action mid-air, staring at Dr. Stewart.

“I was under the impression that I am to be working at Site-91,” he says, “in Yorkshire?”

“As I thought, I forgot something,” Dr. Stewart sighs, the first sign of human imperfection leaking through. She searches through her briefcase, long nails clicking through the files. “Sit down, please, and there’s no need to pack up your belongings.”

Sending the objects back to their original places, Draco takes his seat, brows furrowed. He toys with his wand, a tick he hasn’t been able to be rid of ever since Potter’s returned his wand after years of what seemed to be perpetual emptiness without it.

“There we go,” Dr. Stewart says and flips open a thick, stapled stack of paper. “You are to stay here for the duration of your first assignment. Count yourself lucky, starting work right away.”

“Stay here? But—”

“There is an anomalous individual working here,” she says, hard lines etched on her face. “You will act like you’ve not changed your career and continue to ‘work’ in the Ministry. Because of your proximity, we expect you to gather as much information as possible about him. You can use any method, as long as you stay alive and well to report back to us and receive your salary. Not to worry, we will assist you as this individual is, like most of what we deal with, deadly when pushed.”

She slides the file toward him and settles back against her chair. Draco is admittedly no less surprised than before.

“Wake up and get ready by 6 AM this Saturday, for we’ll come to get you at your house and go to Site-91. There are other information and protocols you need to know, and you’ll also get the equipment suited for this assignment,” Dr. Stewart adds.

Draco has a few questions, but from the way she ends with a close-mouthed smile, he reckons any at all would be regarded as idiotic. Well, at least she told him something.

With a slight sigh, he opens the file. The peculiar layouts and code words fly past him—he’d have to ask for a manual of some kind, Muggle science-y terminology has never been his best suit. However.

“What,” he breathes, leaning close to the file, eyes wide, “what is he—what is—”

However, there are two words he can’t mistake, no matter how sleep-deprived he is or how blind. A name, in fact.

“What is Harry Potter doing in this file?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Dr. Stewart asks, lacing her fingers on her lap. “Think. His lifelong exposure with the Dark Arts and artifacts, how volatile and explosive his power is, and most importantly, how dangerous he is even to the brightest magic users. There’s a reason why we don’t meddle with your kind. You already have the means available to contain certain anomalies, but Potter is different, and we have to step in this time.”

Draco stares at her, then at the name in the file, at the picture attached, slack-jawed.

“The oddity in the mundane, Dr. Malfoy,” Dr. Stewart leans forward, a knowing look on her face. Draco's legs feel like wooden trunks, sunken into the ground. "Get used to it, and get focused. Because if left unchecked, Harry Potter might very well get powerful enough to become a reality bender."

[fizzingwizard]

I fell asleep so here’s day 5 a bit late to party... Day 6 will surely be late too xP Again, thanks for the comments last time, I enjoyed them, even the ones hidden in tags haha.

Koushirou and Taichi have a talk post-Bokura no Mirai. Watch out, cuz both boys have mouths on them. Taishiro if you squint.

---

Tri week day 5 - Survival - They Make Miracles

Taichi texted him wanting to hang out over after school, and as Koushirou had spent the day at the office, that meant Taichi came there. He spread out on the couch, flipping through the pages of some comic book. Koushirou sat at his desk. They had a bottle of cold oolong each and a bowl of shrimp crackers. Out the window, the din of rush hour traffic filtered in from the Tokyo streets below.

Some might look at them and think they were ignoring each other, each occupied in separate activities, only looking up to acknowledge there was someone else in the room when their hands bumped reaching into the cracker bowl. But their friendship worked like this. In fact, if the long stretches of silence bothered Taichi at all, he would have ditched Koushirou way back in elementary school.

That was something about Taichi not everyone understood: he could get as wrapped up in his own head as Koushirou did. Sometimes it seemed like Taichi sought him out because he wouldn't have to feel pressured to make small talk. He wanted to think, and he wanted someone else to be there while he was thinking, but not Sora, who would want give him advice, and not Yamato, who would stay quiet but coiled with tension until Taichi finally said something to bring them back to known waters. Koushirou, at least, understood the need for privacy for his thoughts, even if he didn't quite get why Taichi still wanted another body there anyway.

So it came as a surprise when Taichi shattered the silence, a page of the comic book suspended in the air as he paused mid-turn. "I'm never going to know if it was a mistake or not, am I," he said.

Koushirou looked up. Taichi's gaze was fixed on a random spot on the coffee table. But then he straightened, throwing his arms over the back of the couch in a deceptively casual move. His face, though, he kept turned away.

On days like this, Koushirou tended to be so involved in his work that, even if Taichi did have something to say, all he'd get in reply was a vague "Hmm." Later he might not even remember that they'd talked. It was a habit that drove Mimi up the wall, but once again, Taichi never seemed to mind that much. Of course, most of the time the conversation was along the lines of "Look at the cool play this soccer star made," or "Can you believe Satou-sensei expects us to finish the group project by tomorrow?" and "Hmm" was, more or less, all the response needed. Plus Koushirou was pretty sure Taichi sometimes took advantage of it to insist he had agreed to things he couldn't recall ever discussing.

Too bad he couldn't pretend this was about a mistake on some test.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard while he weighed his options. "... The world isn't divided into good and bad, Taichi-san," he said at last, though once the words were out, they felt pale and trite horribly inadequate. "For what it's worth, I think you made the right choice. Really the only choice."

He didn't add the rest: that he viewed killing Meicoomon as akin to chopping off a gangrenous limb. A terrible choice to make, but without it, the necrotic tissue would continue to spread and infect until there was nothing left. The metaphor worked, but he felt pretty sure the depersonalization wouldn't sit well with Taichi.

Taichi made a noncommittal noise. Something knotted in Koushirou's stomach. Probably, more than any of the others, Koushirou was the least upset with how things had ended with Meicoomon. In his wildest dreams he'd never imagined separating a Chosen from their partner, let alone - let alone killing one. When he'd realized Meiko might know the password to unlock the Digimons' sealed memories, hope had struck him like a bolt of lightning: all those dark predictions he couldn't see his way out of were about to be swept away by a miracle. Just like when they were kids.

That was the fatal error. There hadn't been any miracles when they were kids.

It had only felt that way because they didn't know how else to explain the unexplainable.

He and Taichi had talked many times over the years, about the fact that they were killers. The others didn't get a lot out of putting it into words like that, but it was true. They'd been killing since they were ten years old, killing to protect, killing to survive. It was just that, this time, they'd killed someone that loved.

"I just," Taichi swallowed thickly. "At the time, we... there wasn't any more time, but... now I just wonder... no one else wanted to do it, they all followed my lead and maybe... Sorry, I'm not making any sense..."

"We followed your lead like we always do, Taichi-san, because you lead us well." In a sudden fit of nerves, Koushirou pushed off the polished surface of his desk and stood. Once standing, though, he felt infinitely more awkward and wished he hadn't.

He was trying to think of an unobtrusive way to disappear behind his workspace again when Taichi at long last gave up staring at the wall. He looked over at Koushirou with liquid brown eyes. It was only the briefest of glances before he hunched over on the edge of the couch, fingers digging into his scalp.

His next words were muffled and wet-sounding.

"Nishijima-sensei died. I was - I was so messed up. I shouldn't have made that decision. I shouldn't have made any decisions. I was - what's the word they use -"

"Compromised?" Koushirou offered.

"Yeah, that."

Fuck.

Why did Taichi have to come to him for comfort? Yamato or Sora would be so much better at this.

If they were better, he would have gone to them, Tentomon's matter-of-fact voice in his head pointed out. Tentomon was in the digital world at present, but Koushirou didn't need him there to know what he'd think about this.

Then another voice, one that didn't sound like Tentomon at all, added: Maybe comfort isn't all he wants.

"You witnessed something... unspeakable," Koushirou said gently. His feet seemed to move as if on automatic, making a winding path around the desk to stand at the coffee table's edge, an arm's length away from where Taichi had begun to collapse in on himself. "It had to affect your judgment."

A beat. Taichi gave a tremulous nod.

"It doesn't follow that your judgment must have been mistaken, Taichi-san."

The hands smoothed down his face. "But I'm never going to know," he said in a dull voice.

Folding his arms, Koushirou sat down on the opposite seat. "Let's not deal in vagaries. Here's what I know," he said, careful to keep his tone level, bussinesslike. "I know the world was going to change, at that moment, one way or another. I know a lot was at stake." Lives, the entire world - Mochizuki and Meicoomon. Taichi was certainly thinking it on his own. Koushirou forced himself to hold his gaze as he went on. "I know Meicoomon's data had been corrupted beyond recognition. I know Yggdrasil and Homeostasis both intended to move regardless of how we felt about it. I don't know how much was ever really salvageable. But I know you salvaged control. We're not their unwitting pawns, and that's thanks to you."

A slow smile crept over Taichi's face, brittle at the edges. "Isn't that thanks to you? Every time we need a miracle, Koushirou, you -"

"There are no miracles," Koushirou interrupted, with a stubborn set of his jaw, "that don't sacrifice on the altar of mysticism the ones who broke their backs to make them happen."

Stunned silence. Taichi gave a startled laugh. "Wow... I'm not sure I understood all the words there."

"Maybe there was a way to save Meicoomon." The words spilled out like a runaway train, and he had no idea if he was helping or hurting, but he couldn't stop now. "And maybe there was a way to save the digital world that didn't involve abducting eight children from their homes and making them fight for their lives, resetting their innocence, teaching them how the world assigns value, whether something is cheap or precious, based on circumstance, on convenience. We all handled it the best way we knew how, and sometimes - sometimes that way wasn't very good. The whole time, there was one thing that got us through it, day after day. Taichi-san, do you know what it is?"

Taichi looked as if he were hanging onto what Koushirou was saying like it were a lifeline. He nodded. "It was hope."

"No, Taichi-san," Koushirou said viciously. "It was you."

Taichi's throat worked, and his long, dark lashes stuttered. He seemed to try to answer, but lost the words he'd been looking for. "Fuck," he choked out after a while, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling.

Koushirou gave him time to get a hold of himself. He'd seen Taichi cry before. Always out of guilt. Well, not this time - not if he could help it.

The ping of an incoming message lit up his computer, followed by an insistent buzz from his phone a moment later. He didn't get up.

"I-I wish-" Koushirou listened in silence as Taichi tripped and stumbled over his unruly emotions. He suspected it had been a while since Taichi had done any sort of maintenance on them. Not since Meicoomon, probably.

"I wish we could have saved Meicoomon, Koushirou." He'd never sounded so much like a child, not even when he was one.

"We all do."

"But I don't know if it's because I regret what I did, or because I don't like the way Yamato and Sora treat me now, like I'm about to break down any second, or because Hikari will never look up to me the same way again-"

"None of the above. It's because you're a good person, Taichi-san."

The look on Taichi's face was somewhere between bleak and utterly desperate. "How can you be so sure about that?"

"I know many things," Koushirou said. "I think you'll agree with me there. I could be wrong about any of them, but not that one thing." He didn't smile, he didn't let his gaze waver. "Never that."

I don't wany any leader that isn't you.

"Fuck you," said Taichi, voice breaking, but there was unexpected laughter at the end of it. "Geez, Koushirou. What am I supposed to with that?" He shook his head, looking exhausted. "I couldn't talk about it before. I couldn't - make things all about me, when Mochizuki's the one who-" He stopped, fists curling and uncurling on his knees. "Yamato will beat me up if that's what I want from him. Sora will tell me everything's fine even if it's not what she really thinks. Hikari won't talk about it all. I figured you at least didn't hate me for what happened. Out of all of us, you would have thought everything through for yourself. At least your opinion would be your own."

"It is," Koushirou promised.

Taichi nodded. The color had begun to return to his face. Slowly, as if carding through his thoughts, he said: "I'll never know if it was a mistake. But it's done."

"It's done."

"That's not much of a balm for the soul," Taichi sighed.

Koushirou looked down. "I guess not," he said. "It's real, though."

Another silence followed. Like the calm after a storm, Koushirou thought. He did feel as though they'd just weathered some catastrophe, or perhaps escaped it by a hair.

"She says she doesn't hate me," Taichi said after a few minutes passed in therapeutic quiet. "Mochizuki."

"Ah."

"But she's... y'know. Kind. She's the type to blame herself for things that aren't her fault."

Koushirou shrugged. "Seems like you two are a matched set, then."

Taichi gave him a sharp look, but didn't say anything. He took a deep breath, whole body swelling like a cresting wave. Then he reached for a shrimp cracker.

"Damn... heavy talk makes me hungry."

Koushirou couldn't help it. He laughed. And reached for his bottle of oolong. He was parched.

"Koushirou..." Ah, he knew what was coming now. "Thanks. When I came over, I didn't mean for..."

"I don't want thanks. Or apologies." I just want you. But, no, that... he wasn't at a point where he could say that just yet. "I just want you at your best. I still think we can change the world, Taichi-san."

A hesitant grin. "That's a promise," Taichi said, only it sounded more like "fash a fwomish" with his mouth full of cracker.

Demons couldn't be defeated in a single afternoon, over oolong tea and shrimp crackers, despite best intentions. Koushirou knew that. He'd dealt with his fair share of demons and they were intractable little brutes. But Taichi could out-stubborn anything. He wouldn't have been able to lead them this far if that weren't true.

As for Mochizuki Meiko - even if Taichi couldn't quite admit it yet, Koushirou thought he understood why she was being "kind." Because though what they'd taken had been enormous, they'd done their utmost to give back what they could. It might be small, but seeds always are. Mochizuki had a future stretched out before her too, free from the designs of any government organization or mysterious otherworldly power. Teeming with possibilities, neither good nor bad. Simply there.

Taichi was going to change the world. Koushirou meant to do the same. People would say they made miracles, but the two of them would call it something else.

They would call it living.

---

as usual i am an overdramatic bitch

side note: I was gonna have Koushirou call out Taichi for saying Yamato would beat him up, but just didn’t find a spot for it. So for clarity’s sake, this is Taichi being hard on himself, not indicative of what Yamato would actually do. We all saw him cry after losing his bestie *wibble*

I don’t know how they can both reach the shrimp cracker bowl if Koushirou’s at the desk and Taichi’s on the couch, by the way. I guess it’s hovering in the air between them, or they both have Elastigirl arms :P

[theshipsfirstmate]

Agents of SHIELD Fic: All My Best Kept Secrets Are the Ones I Didn’t Know I Had

post-SHIELD 7x06 and also post-Agent Carter season 2. peggysous -> daisysous.

doing my best to tie up the loose ends that get Daniel from Peggy to Daisy, because I, like many others, could not have imagined shipping him with anyone else and then the last few eps of SHIELD have taken a sledgehammer to my feelings. so, just like this ship, idk where this came from, but here it is.

Title from “Something in Common” by Dawes.

All My Best Kept Secrets Are the Ones I Didn’t Know I Had (AO3 - wc: 3218)

After Peggy went back to New York, Daniel told himself to take it easy.

And he tried, he really did. He even said it in his head, sometimes, the way Jack had: “Take it easy, Danny boy.” The wise-cracking agent had never stopped teasing him, even after they had become something resembling friends. But he was gone now too, left behind in a past that didn’t feel as distant as it should.

They’d had all of one day together, he and Peg, before everything went to hell. She had kissed him -- in his office, of all places -- and he had reveled in it for a few blissful moments before sending her away with a matching grin on her face, so he could pick her up later that evening for a proper date.

He’d planned on Musso and Frank -- had been carrying around the image in his mind for longer than he’d admit to anyone -- but after he picked her up and saw that mischievous flash in her eyes, he’d called an audible, turning the car south on Western, guessing she’d be up for something a little more adventurous. He was right, she was taken with El Coyote from the moment they walked in, wide-eyed and grinning at everything from the margarita glasses to the friendly waitress who’d winked and called him “Blanquito.”

Looking back at it now, he’s almost glad he doesn’t remember too many more of the details. He doesn’t remember what they ordered or exactly how long they’d sat and talked in that booth. He just remembers the warmth of her eyes, her hand in his across the table, the way she seemed more relaxed than he’d ever known her to be. Those were the things to hold onto.

He’d dropped her off with a gentlemanly kiss at her front door -- and a less-than-gentlemanly follow-up when she’d tried to convince him to come in for coffee. His only regret now was not taking her up on the offer. Not so much for the obvious reason, just to give them a few more easy hours before it all came crashing down.

Because when Daniel returned to his own front door that night, there was a patrolman — one of the new guys, whose name he had to read off his badge in the dim porch light — sitting on the stoop, waiting for him. 

“Thompson’s gone,” the kid said. “Never made it on the plane. Signs of a struggle in his room. And a lot of blood.”

The next week was non-stop, chaos and panic and a wild goose chase that had led them everywhere but to Jack. A sinister cloud hung over the entire office, and the spectral whispers of the one name no one wanted to speak aloud echoed in the desperate silences. He and Peggy barely had a chance to look at each other, let alone talk about anything but the latest scraps of evidence, and when it was all over, well, there was no relief there, either.

He’s never gotten used to funerals, and having a hand to hold this time didn’t make it that much easier, not with the weight of failure pressing down on them both.

Thompson had fought hard, that much was clear when they’d finally found him. But it wasn’t enough. That was Daniel’s biggest fear every time he thought about the facts they had been able to gather, every time the unspeakable name echoed in the confines of his restless brain. Cut off one head, and two more take its place -- would they ever be enough to fight it? Would it ever be easier?

__________________

“You know it truly is nothing to do with you, don’t you?” Peggy had asked him, eyes turned down to the table between them, to the cups of coffee untouched and growing cold. This time, Daniel didn’t reach out for her hand. He listened to the buzz of the planes taking off at the Lockheed Air Terminal down the road, and wished it were enough to drown out the whole day entirely.

“Peg, you don’t have to do that,” he’d muttered, feeling childish. “Spare me the pity, I-”

“Daniel,” she’d interrupted, in that tone that left no room for questions. “I’ve never pitied you, and I certainly don’t intend to start now.”

He stared back, silent. That was the problem, you see, with the goodness of a heart like hers. There was no artifice, no way to crack back in a moment like this one. As miserable as it was, he was going to have to sit here and take it.

“Please,” she’d continued, softer, still barely looking at him. “I want to say it. I need you to know.”

He’d huffed out a breath through his nose and aimlessly fiddled with the tiny pitcher of milk. “OK.”

“I want to say…” she had started, stopped and gathered herself, then started again. “I want to tell you that you deserve so much more than what I can give you.”

He’d hated hearing the cliche, even as he weighed its truth. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was that he deserved, but hadn’t he known it would be this way from the start? Hadn’t a part of him always worried that there wouldn’t be room in her heart for the kind of life he wanted to share? 

“It’s not for the reason you think,” she’d insisted, before he could come up with something to say in response. “I promised myself….When Steve died, I promised myself I would keep up the fight.”

She hardly ever said his name aloud. It didn’t ruffle Daniel as much as he expected, but it did make him speak up.

“I’m in it with you, Peg. I hope at least you know that.”

She’d nodded, and then she’d finally looked up -- and he immediately wished to God she hadn’t. Because there, behind the sheen of barely-restrained tears, was their ending.

“All we can do is our best,” she told him, not for the first time. “And I think we both know this fight is going to take the best we have.” 

He nodded and swallowed against the lump in his throat he was starting to worry might be permanent. 

“But this... It’s too much for me, Daniel. I can’t lose you too.”

A bitter part of his brain pointed out that it was ironic, to say that as she walked away. But he tamped that down, and told her the only truth he could find that felt like it wouldn’t make things worse.

“I’ll miss you, Peg.”

She had reached out then, squeezed his hand fast and tight, telling him the same before swiping beneath her eyes. And then, she was gone.

Easy.

__________________

Daniel had tried, he really had. In his brief moments of free time as they watched the Hydra trail dry up hopelessly once again, he went on a handful of absolutely mediocre dates with the sunny blonde who worked the front desk at the local library and the brunette waitress who left her number on his receipt at the diner. He even let the guys at the office set him up once with a busty redhead who was so forward he spent the next week trying to suss out whether or not they’d paid her.

But there wasn’t anything there. There wasn’t anything anywhere, it seemed. With every interested woman he met -- and there were a few, he didn’t mind saying -- it was the same as it had been with Violet. Perfectly fine, perfectly nice, perfectly room temperature. In another lifetime, maybe he could have convinced himself that’s what it was supposed to feel like. But not now. 

And then one day, he walked into his office on a top-secret S.H.I.E.L.D. base, and met a girl from the future.

There was something about her, right from the beginning. She was beautiful, there was no denying that, and he saw something familiar in the mischievous glint in her eye — he’d been able to clock her CIA lie on its face, though it was just one part of a larger, much more confusing puzzle.

At first, he thought his reaction to her was just part of the chaos -- excess adrenaline at the prospect of seeing Peggy unexpectedly and the frantic and unexplainable events that followed. But then it didn’t go away.

She kept surprising him, that was familiar too. Comforting, almost, in a bizarre, backwards kind of way. She saved his life on the train — he’s always had extra respect for a woman who could throw a good punch. And he hadn’t missed the shadow that crossed her face when he mentioned all the things that Hydra had taken from him. There was even more to uncover, he was sure of it. Even finally learning her first name, Daisy, had him furrowing his brow at the dichotomy.

But there was hardly time to dwell on it. He’d expected to drive out of that futuristic aircraft and never see her, or any of her compatriots, ever again. He’d deliver his package to Stark, go home to an empty house, and wake up tomorrow to throw himself back into the work.

The next thing he knew, he was staring at the familiar eagle on the wall, and Agent Coulson was telling him he was dead. Like it was that easy.

__________________

He tried to throw himself into the fight immediately — he’s always been aware of the liability of dead weight and there wasn’t any time to stumble around and gather his bearings if he was going to be useful in the team’s mission to stop the Chronicoms.

Still, he would catch Daisy watching him, warily, like a timer on a bomb. She teased him in the clothing store, elbowing him playfully when he stopped dead at the “modern” 1970s fashions, but when he met her eyes, there was something more insistent looking back at him. It was like she was asking him a question neither of them could put into words, sizing up whether or not he was going to run, or stay, or fit, or break, or...something.

He tried his best to not to give her more to worry about. So he wouldn’t be the one to extract Hydra from S.H.I.E.L.D. in the ‘50s -- as it turned out, there were plenty of other ways to save the world. That was the core of the mission he’d signed up for from the start, and he felt more at ease the more he realized this was a team devoted to the same cause.

But he wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, that made him step up behind her in that underground bar and call her “sweetheart” -- maybe the same misguided sense of chivalry that got him a dressing down after he made Krzeminski apologize to Peggy in the briefing room back in New York. Mercifully, Daisy had gone along with his ruse, surprising him again with a palm pressed to his chest and a conspiratorial grin in his direction. 

And he hoped it was duty again, not the memory of that smile, that made him insist on accompanying her to hack into the base. After a confrontation with the scruffy kid with the dark circles under his eyes, he was more aware than ever that this team was just barely more adjusted to their circumstances than he was. But that still didn’t quite explain his growing desire to stay at Daisy’s side. 

What he was really looking for, if he’s honest, was a bit of solid ground. What he was wondering was if the feeling in his chest would turn out to be fleeting, if the quaking he’d felt when she touched him was because of her powers — or if it was something else entirely.

Because it seemed like something he never felt with Violet or the librarian or any of the rest. It seemed like it might be something he’s only felt once before. And it’s just his luck that it comes wrapped up in even more danger.

He tagged along just the same, watching her back and trying to learn on his feet about all the things she could do in addition to making the earth shake. She could break into a computer network he can’t even begin to comprehend, she could snap a crystal clear picture of him on that thin screen she said was a telephone, she could quirk an eyebrow at him and make him forget, just for a moment, that his life had descended once again into supernatural chaos.

“You look OK for a guy who just aged 20 years.” She teased him a second time as he marveled at the photo, and his stomach flipped all the way over to melancholy. But he wasn’t totally honest about why.

His heart ached at the thought of Peggy getting the news of his “death,” but the biggest goodbye of all, Daniel had realized, was to the man he used to be. However lonely and lukewarm he thought his life had been, he hadn’t been prepared to lose it so suddenly. There was possibility there, and promise to mourn, and the uncertainty about what lay ahead now had given him a rose-colored rearview mirror to look back at all he had left behind.

But when he told Daisy that this might be his last stop, she had simply turned back to her computer, assuring him their current dilemma was just a minor setback -- “Without us, it’s way worse,” she said.

She said it like she’d already accepted him as part of the team, like another thing she knew that he didn’t was that he hadn’t lost himself to the ether of time travel. She said it like he belonged.

It made the decision seem easy enough.

__________________

When the Malick kid’s goons bring her back, when he sees her limp and bloodied, slumped on the floor beside him, he has another flash to his past -- Peggy lying prone, impaled on a mean-looking length of rebar. He had learned that night how strong she really was. Not just because she had survived, but because she had let him see her at her weakest and most terrified, had let him haul her into his arms and onto his couch and into focus for his fiancee, who he knew would be able to see right through it all. 

He had blown up his entire life just for the weak, grateful smile they shared when they realized she was going to be OK. And it had been worth it.

Daisy doesn’t seem the type to let someone stroke her hair either, but Daniel tries to stop himself from drawing any more parallels right then and there. He keeps checking her pulse point like an excuse, and hopes it’s a fair trade-off that he agrees to tell her the story of his rescue. 

He doesn’t like to think about Stevens much, about the way he’s carried the potential of that pesky man's life with him every day since he woke up on that stretcher. That’s what you do when someone dies for you. You have to live for them.

That makes him think of Peggy again -- and then, unbidden, of Steve Rogers. He remembers the stories they used to tell about what Captain America was like before the serum: skinny, frail, half a dozen 4F rejections under various pseudonyms. He thinks of that kid, plucked from the life he was supposed to live and thrust onto a pedestal that must have felt completely untenable at times -- given muscle and then immediately handed the weight of the world.

And now there’s Daisy, with these powers. The kind of strength good men would covet and evil men would kill for. And like him, she’s left behind whatever life she had in order to fight her way through space and time and try to save humanity.

Peggy was a woman who ran headfirst into a storm without giving so much as a thought to an umbrella. Daisy, he’s learning, is the storm itself.

So he talks to her, and he keeps talking. He tells her things he’s never told another living person. In fairness, he thinks, he’s technically known her almost 20 years.

He tells her about survival, certain she already knows. He tells her about warfare, a different type than she’s seen, but with a common enemy. He tells her to fight -- and when she shows him the shard of glass she’s snuck back to him in a bloody palm, he knows the way his heart thuds could be just as dangerous as the psychopath in the other room.

Daniel’s always been good at waiting for his moment, and mercifully, it comes not long after Daisy slips completely into unconsciousness. He shifts away from her on the dirty floor to avoid risking further injury, and he readies himself like he had in the trenches.

When the time comes, he fights, just like he knows Stevens must have fought to get him to safety. They catch a lucky break when the earth-rattling powers prove to be too much for Malick to handle, and he carries her back to the ship, leg aching all the way, remembering the stern nurse in the field hospital who had looked down her glasses at him every time he’d complained about the throbbing.

“It’s the beat of your heart, soldier, remember that,” she had snipped as she doled out his meds. “If nothing else, it means you’re still alive.”

The team meets him at the door to help Daisy into their med bay, and when Agent Simmons mutters something that sounds an awful lot like “Not again,” something else twists inside Daniel’s chest. Shrugging off his own first aid until she’s been attended to, he takes a seat by the door to stay present but out of the way. Maybe some small part of him hopes that when she wakes, he’ll be a familiar face.

If he’s honest, he’s never thought about living to see the end of the 20th century, never even considered it. He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. director with war injuries and more than his fair share of close calls, it would have taken nothing short of a miracle. But he doesn’t think twice when the scruffy kid -- Deke, he remembers this time -- tells them they’re about to jump again. He's not sure when he changed his mind, but it’s been changed, nonetheless. 

“I’m where I need to be,” he says, as the soft beeps of Daisy’s monitor assure him that if nothing else, she’s still alive.

Easy never felt quite right, anyway.

[dewitty1]

you, a violent desire

alpha_exodus @alpha-exodus

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Astoria Greengrass, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Minor Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Dubious Consent, Divorce, Minor Violence, Fist Fights, Love Potion/Spell, Amortentia, Love Potion Abuse, Minor Character Terminal Illness, Depression, Minor Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s), Anal Sex, Voyeurism, Unspeakables (Harry Potter), Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, minor prostitution, H/D Erised 2019, Open Relationships, POV Alternating, Enemies to Lovers, Asexual Character, Draco Malfoy & Astoria Greengrass Friendship, Department of Mysteries, Angst with a Happy Ending, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Veritaserum, Anal Fingering, Switching, Masturbation, Frottage, Dildos, Riding, Couch Sex, Past Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s)

Summary:

The Amortentia was an accident—but only the first time.

Excerpt:

“Potter,” Malfoy sighs, breath warm against Harry’s cheek as he kisses his jawbone, making Harry shudder. “Potter, fuck.”

Harry’s struck with the thought that it’s rather funny that Malfoy’s still calling him ‘Potter’—and for that matter, Harry’s still calling him Malfoy, isn’t he? He laughs, deep from his belly, pulling Malfoy closer still. “Draco,” he says, liking the sound of it in his mouth, “Draco.”

“Nngh,” Draco groans, pupils dilating as Harry pulls back to stare at him. “Potter, can I—”

“Harry,” Harry corrects, laughing again, sliding his knuckles up against Draco’s cheek and making his eyelids flutter.

“Harry,” Draco says, “can I—I mean, I need to, I need to kiss you—”

“Fuck,” Harry gasps, not quite sure why he hadn’t thought of that before, but now the desire burns in him, clenching in his throat and pulsing in the space between his hips. “Yes, please—”

Then Draco kisses him, and it’s like fireworks, his lips soft as they move against Harry’s own, stirring so much arousal in him that he thinks he could burst. Harry groans into it, deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue against Draco’s and panting as Draco slides a hand down to cup his arse.

“More,” Harry gasps out, pulling at the fastener on Draco’s robes. “Please, I need—I need you—”

All at once Draco looks both frightened and completely desperate. “Not… not here,” he gasps out, but even so, he’s clutching at Harry as if he’s afraid to let go.

“My place,” Harry offers, and he notices the slightest bit of relief in Draco’s eyes but doesn’t pay it any mind—he’s too focused on thoughts like now, please and yes and need you.

“Okay,” Draco says, “Yes, yes, okay,” and then he kisses Harry fiercely, very nearly distracting Harry from the fact that he ought to Apparate them out of there.

After several moments of snogging he finally remembers, and he Apparates them into his living room mid-kiss, the crack barely audible against the heavy beating of his heart. “Fuck,” he says, grinning at the sight of Draco in his flat. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Harry,” Draco sighs, pressing him backwards until Harry’s knees hit the sofa, and he bends obligingly, letting Draco lay him down and whimpering as Draco crawls on top of him. “You’re so—fuck…”

“I’m so what?” Harry says, grinning coyly and finally, finally pulling at Draco’s robes.

“Insufferably attractive,” Draco mumbles, leaning down to press the words into Harry’s neck as if embarrassed. “Obnoxiously good-looking, dreadfully endearing—”

Harry laughs, pausing in trying to get Draco’s robes off so he can gently caress Malfoy’s shoulder. “I love you,” he says softly, nudging at Draco’s chin so Draco looks at him.

Draco blushes, bright and pink. “Don’t expect me to say it back,” he mumbles...

[shireness-says]

Wherever You’re Going (I’m Going Your Way) [3/6]

Summary: 1952. A lost boy without a home, Killian Jones rides America’s back roads on his motorcycle, searching for a purpose that’s just out of reach. This pit stop was only supposed to be a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but a pretty blonde waitress just might be his salvation. Is he brave enough to let her? Rated T for language. ~3.6K.  Also on AO3. Ch. 1 Ch. 2

~~~~~

Killian spends the next day kicking himself for the way things ended in the diner. The simple thing would be to go back to the diner the next day — to prove with his presence alone that it’s alright, that he didn’t mean to stop the conversation entirely, even if he wasn’t willing to follow that one particular thread.

He doesn’t.

He spends a lot of time lying awake, replaying the moment he brought things to a screeching halt over and over again. It’s a form of self-flagellation, for certain, but it’s still better than the nightmares his mind conjures up night after night. There’s only so much the stars can do to calm him when he sees the same flames and crushing waves night after night. Reveling in his shame and recriminations is much preferable. 

(The sensible thing, of course, would be to stop lying awake in the dark and to just go to the diner for a pot of tea and a distraction. It’d give him a chance to make up for his own stupidity.)

(Killian Jones is not nearly that sensible.)

What really gets him is that he felt like there was a genuine connection between the two of them. It’s been a long while since Killian has felt so comfortable talking to another person, able to leave some of his regular self-consciousness behind. It had seemed to go both ways, too — like she understood him on some level, and wanted to hear what he had to say. Maybe if he hadn’t been so curt; maybe if he had been willing to open himself up more… but it’s no use. What’s done is done, and besides, Killian can’t truly regret not sharing more, even if he does regret what that meant for whatever was shared between him and Emma in those moments. He’s not ready, or willing, to talk about all the reasons he fled — not yet. Not even with blonde angels who make him feel like a man again.

It’s an unspeakable surprise — not to mention, relief — when Emma shows up at the garage with a sack lunch from Granny’s two days after their unceremonious parting. His pulse picks up the moment she walks in the open garage door with paper bags in each hand, evidently not feeling any of the same anxieties he is.

“Anyone hungry?” she calls lightly, smiling at Killian like any awkwardness is forgotten. Maybe it is. He’d be a fool to bring it up again.

“Is that you, Emma?” David hollers from across the shop where he’s camped out under the hood of a truck, replacing one of its radiators. 

“Sure is,” she responds easily. “I’ve got a tuna salad sandwich here with your name on it, too. Unless you’d rather knock around under the hood…” 

“Don’t be silly,” David responds with a fond tone to his voice as he wipes his hands on a spare rag to get rid of the worst of the grease. “You know I’ll never say no to food, especially not Granny’s tuna salad. Fries?”

“Of course, I know how this works.”

Killian looks back and forth between the two of them in confusion; there’s a level of familiarity here that he hadn’t expected. “I’m sorry, do you two know each other?” It’s a bit of a silly question, considering the interaction he just witnessed, but truthfully, he’s a little lost. This was not remotely what he expected to happen. Then again, Storybrooke is a small town; it stands to reason that everyone knows everyone. He’s still stuck in that big-city mentality, he supposes. 

“Emma’s like a little sister to me,” David explains as he slings his arm around her shoulders. 

“Am I little, or are you just old?” she jabs back. The familiarity of that exchange sends a brief jab of pain shooting through Killian’s heart; it’s so reminiscent of the way he and Liam used to poke at each other, the way Killian constantly had to insist that he was younger, not little. 

(He’ll never have that again, and it hurts. He’d put up with all matters of teasing, if it meant he could have his brother back.)

“We’ve known each other since we were, what, teenagers?” David continues, obviously ignoring Emma’s teasing. “Ever since she came up from Portland to stay with Miss Ingrid, God rest her soul.”

“Twelve years now,” Emma nods. “And he’s been insufferable ever since.”

(There’s more of a story there, Killian thinks, but he knows not to push. He’s got things he’s not willing to share either, after all, as they more than proved the night before last.)

“Anyways, I brought you lunch, too, Killian,” Emma says. “I didn’t know what else you’d like, so it’s just ham and cheese again.”

“Again?” David butts in. Killian can practically see the other man’s big brother instincts kick in, which has rarely meant good things for him. People say he’s a bad influence, after all, and Killian isn’t sure he disagrees. “You two have already met?”

“At the diner, you pest. Stand down, soldier, or… something.” Emma rolls her eyes, but the affection is still obvious between the two of them. That’s not something you can mask, even if one is exasperated and the other’s an arse. That’s siblings, really — you love them, even when they grate on your nerves. Even when they’re just connected by love, rather than blood. “Anyways, I just wanted to make sure you were both fed. I’ve got to get back to the lunch rush, actually. I’ll see you later?” 

She must be talking to David — she must. Nothing else makes sense. That doesn’t change the fact that she makes eye contact with Killian as she speaks, holding his stare until he gives a small nod in the affirmative. David says something in the background — probably agreeing, if Killian had to guess — but he’s not listening in the least, far more interested in anything Emma is doing. It’s because of that single-minded attention that Killian can see the small smile she offers him in return, just large enough to begin to round her cheeks and crinkle her eyes. Maybe she did mean to say it to him after all; why else would she smile at him like that? Killian is left with so many questions, but at least he knows she wants so see him again — that he hasn’t mucked things up beyond any repair. 

“So were you going to mention that you knew Emma?” David asks, taking a hearty bite of his sandwich.

“I didn’t know I needed to, mate. I didn’t realize you two even knew each other, let alone so well, until just now.” His own sandwich is just the way he likes it, and the fries somehow still nice and warm. It’s astounding to him that Emma would think to bring him lunch as well; he’s a lucky man, to have earned her kindness. 

“Hmph.” David picks a few fries of his own out of the bag. “I don’t need to give a warning talk or anything, do I?”

“No,” Killian answers immediately — perhaps too hastily. “I mean, she’s a lovely girl — sweet and beautiful and… Maybe under other circumstances, if I wasn’t just passing through…” If I was a different, better man, he thinks — just another thing he can’t say.

David huffs again. “Well, just… be careful.”

“Aye. I will.”

———

He’d promised David he’d be careful, but he never promised he’d stay away — even if he maybe should have. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s 7pm, and while he ought to stay away, he’s back sitting in Granny’s booth yet again.

Emma doesn’t even ask tonight — just brings him a pot of tea, their own little routine that Killian hadn’t realized that they’d fallen into.

“What else can I get you?” she asks, pen poised and ready to take his order.

He hasn’t even looked at the menu, truthfully, and it seems foolish to frantically scan now. “What would you recommend?” he asks instead.

“Granny makes a mean lasagna.”

“I’ll take that then,” he replies with a smile, tucking the menu back away behind the napkin holders from where it had been resting on the table. 

“Can I get you anything else?” She smiles back. 

Just that little gesture makes him bold, gives him the courage to ask a little more. “I wouldn’t be opposed to the company, if you’ve got the time.” Just as soon as he speaks the words, his bravery flees again. “Only if you’d like to, of course, I’d never presume — ”

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” she replies with a laugh. “I’m off in an hour, we can chat a little after that.”

The lasagna is just as good as promised, but Killian doesn’t remember most of the taste, spending an anxious hour anticipating Emma sliding into the booth. It’s still hard to believe his eyes when she finally does, slipping across the vinyl with a small plate of pie so casually like it’s a habit of theirs. Killian feels like his heart is about to thunder out of his ears, but she looks undisturbed — happy and confident and calm. God, he envies her for that calm right now.

“So, we meet again,” she teases, nudging the plate his way. Chocolate meringue tonight — an excellent choice in Killian’s opinion, not that that matters for much of anything. What’s more, there’s two dessert forks propped against the edge of the ceramic saucer. Clearly, and for some reason Killian can’t begin to imagine, she intends for them to share — and damn if that doesn’t put a nervous flutter in his stomach to match his frantic pulse.

“We meet again,” he echoes. “You’re off for the evening, then?” It’s a stupid question, something he realizes as soon as the words leave his mouth; she’d said she’d join him once she was off work for the night, and now here she is. It doesn’t take an idiot to connect the dots… and yet here he sits. 

Angel that she is, she thankfully doesn’t hold it against him. “Yep. No more night shift until Monday. No book tonight?”

“I tucked it away before you came back,” he admits. Lord, he’s even blushing to talk to her — can already feel the heat in his ears. “If I didn’t say it earlier, thank you for lunch today. I’ll pay up tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Emma says, waving her fork through the air in dismissal. “David’s got a tab, I just tucked it on there. Trust me, a ham sandwich is not going to put him into financial straits.”

“Thank David, then,” he grins cheekily, in a burst of confidence. As he and Emma settle into conversation, speaking becomes easier, some of his old surety trickling back into his voice.

“Oh, we’ll be sure to,” she grins right back. He’d almost say she looks a little mischievous, and though he probably should have expected that from a younger sibling, that doesn’t mean he expected it from Emma Swan.

(He likes it — the way it makes her a little less perfect and a little more real.)

“I had assumed you were born and raised in Storybrooke,” he comments as he swipes a bite of pie with his fork. “So when you said you hadn’t been any further than Portland…”

“It’s because I grew up there, yeah,” she nods.

“So how did you end up in Storybrooke, then?”

The smile is less happy this time. “It’s not exactly a happy story,” she tells him. 

“I’ve got time and rum,” Killian offers, earning a disbelieving look in return.

“Seriously?”

Quickly, he pulls the flask out of the inner pocket of his coat. It’s a terrible habit, and he knows he shouldn’t, but on nights when nothing else helps, sometimes the alcohol can help relax him enough to find sleep. 

“You’re a regular pirate, aren’t you?” she teases as she plucks the flask from his hand.

“Can’t say I’ve been accused of that before.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” She punctuates the statement with a swig from the flask, pulling a face as the alcohol hits her throat. “Whoo, that’s got a kick.”

“Well, it is rum, darling,” he teases back. “If you wanted something gentle, you should have asked for tea.”

“Hot chocolate,” she mumbles. Really, Emma looks quite fetching with her cheeks tinged blush pink. Not that it makes her mumblings make more sense.

“Come again?”

“Hot chocolate,” she repeats more clearly. “That’s my preferred drink. I like sweet stuff.”

You’re the only ‘sweet stuff’ I see here. The quip is on the tip of his tongue; he could just let it slip off. But that would be flirting, and it wouldn’t be fair to her to open that box. Besides, he promised David that nothing would happen. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says instead. “But I think you might be deflecting, love.”

“I know,” she sighs.

“You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to —”

“That’s not the issue,” she interrupts. “I’ve got rum, you’re a good guy, it’s completely common knowledge… it’s fine. Just hard to get started.” She takes another swig of the rum; maybe he should order her one of her precious hot chocolates to temper it. “The gist is, I grew up in an orphanage in Portland. I was left at a church as a baby and stayed in the orphanage until I was fostered out when I was fourteen. Someone knew someone who knew Ingrid, who was willing to take in a teenager to help her out, and I ended up in Storybrooke.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Swan.” And he is; it’s not just pretty words. He’s been through similar, and it’s not something he’d wish on anyone.

She shrugs. “It’s fine. I mean… it’s not, but it got me here, which was the best case scenario. And Ingrid was… amazing. Just this no-nonsense woman who owned a little ice cream shop. She was soft-spoken, but you didn’t mess with her. She only died two years ago now.”

“You must miss her.”

“I do. She was… really good to me. I was really lucky that she took me in.” Emma smiles softly at the memories. “I met Mary Margaret at school — she was Blanchard, then, not Nolan — and David… I don’t even know how. He’s a year older than us. In this town, though, you get to know everyone without even trying, and sometime around when Mary Margaret and David started dating, he started treating me like his little sister. It’s kind of annoying, honestly.”

“But nice,” Killian points out. He knows that from experience.

The barest hint of a laugh joins the fond smile Emma’s worn the whole time she’s spoken of the Nolans. “Yeah. Nice too.”

“I was in a… not dissimilar situation,” Killian says as casually as he can, twiddling his leftover tea spoon just for something to do with his hands. “My mother died when I was about eight, and my father wasn’t much interested in playing that role. Just took off. After that, my brother and I got shuttled off to a never-ending series of great-aunts and distant cousins and the like.”

“At least you had family to start with,” Emma comments mournfully.

“True. But at least you ended up with one in the end.”

That brings the smile back. “I did. I take it that it wasn’t the same for you? What about your brother?”

Killian makes a conscious effort not to freeze up again, to relax the tension from his body and answer her. She’s revealed a lot of herself to him, here at this booth; it’s only right that he be willing to do the same. 

“He’s gone, I’m afraid,” he manages to say, even mustering a sad smile and tilt of the head to try and show that it’s alright. It’s not, but Emma doesn’t deserve to feel like he’s angry about telling her. “Joined the Navy when the war started up and died in a German submarine attack.”

“I’m sorry, Killian.” She reaches across the table to squeeze his hand in comfort.

“It’s alright.” It’s still not, but that’s what you say to such things. “That just means I’m all on my own.”

Emma squeezes his hand one more time before releasing it. “I’m sure you’ll find a family some day, even if you have to make your own.”

And Lord, he hopes that she’s right.

———

“You’re not still sleeping on that bench, are you?” David asks, startling Killian. He had been, actually; in fact, David had woken him up. Most days, Killian is up and waiting by the time David gets to the garage, but he’d had a good night’s sleep for once, and apparently not woken up in time. Either that, or David has arrived early. Either way, he’s been caught in the proverbial act. 

“Where else would I be?” Killian retorts as he hurriedly puts himself back together, slipping his leather jacket back on and grabbing his bag from where it’d been serving as a make-shift pillow.

“Settle down, Jones,” the other man soothes, lifting his hands in surrender. “No need to get defensive. I just figured you would have checked into one of the rooms at Granny’s Inn.”

Killian tries to settle some of his instinctive snappish reaction; he knows it’s just from embarrassment at being caught like this. “Ah, well, if the weather turns foul, I will. As long as the nights are pleasant, though, I’d rather save the money, I don’t have that much on me.”

“You should have said something,” David scolds. “You could have slept on the couch in the garage. I’ve got a spare key you could use.”

Killian stares at him in bewilderment for a moment. “You’d trust me to do that?”

David shrugs. “Of course. Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

“I mean, most wouldn’t. It’s no offense to you mate, it’s just… folks don’t usually trust a stranger who looks the way I do in small towns like yours.”

“The way I see it, there’s been plenty of opportunities for you to rob me blind already. Especially since I’ve trusted you with the cash register. And you haven’t. Will that change if I let you sleep on something inside and cushioned?” David asks with a knowing look on his face.

“Of course not.”

“That’s what I thought. You’ve been here on that bench for nearly a week, and I don’t want to think about how long you’d been doing the same before that. Besides, if you’re working for me, I’ll get better work from you well-rested,” he winks. 

“I’d hate to be a bother —”

“I can grab the spare key from the house over lunch. Let me do a nice thing for you, Killian.”

And Lord help him, he accepts.

It’s more than just a couch, too — it’s pillows and several crocheted afghans and a volume of detective stories, all courtesy of Mrs. Nolan, when David comes back from lunch with the key. He feels welcomed in a way that he didn’t expect when he went to sleep last night — let alone at this time last week.

Killian goes through the day with… if not happiness in his heart, then something close. He and David were able to finish a major repair this afternoon, he’s got a place to sleep, and he’d spent a lovely evening at the diner with Emma, where she’d brought him a pot of tea without him even asking and later a serving of meatloaf to go with it. They’d talked until after eleven at night about anything they could think of — favorite novels, stories of David as a teenager, places they’ve always wanted to see, until Killian couldn’t justify loitering any longer as Emma worked the night shift. It’s perfect, even if he has to ignore the flutter of feelings growing in his heart.

He should have known, though, that things were just a little too good to last. 

Killian walks back to the garage with a feeling he might almost call hope rushing through his veins. Hope for what, he’s not sure; he certainly can’t think of any reason that should warrant it. Hope, maybe, that there are still people out there capable of seeing past what they believe of him: the loner, the tramp, the ungrateful bastard who won’t just take their pretty words. Hope that someone thinks he might still be a good man, an ordinary man.

(The voice in his brain whispers that maybe he just hopes that Emma sees him that way, the first person in what feels like ages not to look at him with suspicion for even a moment and to treat him with kindness just for the simple sake of being kind.)

(It’s amazing, the way a perfectly uneventful night can sink into his soul.)

In retrospect, perhaps that was the folly — an overabundance of happiness and hope. He should know better than to think that everything can go his way in more than a momentary way.

The problem comes when he attempts to get back into the garage. He has a key, of course, thanks to David, but that doesn’t change just how dark it gets in this corner of Maine, every single star visible but not the deadbolt. There’s a streetlight on the corner, but that doesn’t do much good when Killian’s own body is casting a shadow over the lock and he just can’t fit the key to the lock. He’s nearly got it, has got the edge of the key into the slot, when —

Gravel crunches behind him and a sudden beam of light casts right over his silhouette. “Step away from the door, please, and hands in the air.”

~~~~~

Whoops, sorry. Not really. Let me know what you think!

Tagging: @kmomof4, @aerica13, @thisonesatellite, @searchingwardrobes, @let-it-raines, @teamhook, @ohmightydevviepuu​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @spartanguard​, @scientificapricot​, @snowbellewells​, @welllpthisishappening​, @tiganasummertree​, @captainswanbigbang​, @snidgetsafan​, @thejollyroger-writer​, @profdanglaisstuff​

[jakey-beefed-it]

Coming up with Necron Dynasty stuff, and resultant fretting about actual names, under the cut

So the first thing to square away is the inspiration: primarily drawing from cosmic horror themes and specifically early cosmic horror/cosmic horror-adjascent writers of the late 19th/early 20th century (Lovecraft, Bierce, Chambers, Machen, Dunsany), the reapers from Mass Effect, the machines from the Matrix, the Cybermen from Dr. Who, and of course a hefty dose of Ancient Egypt as interpreted through Shelly’s Ozymandias.

As such, the basic thrust of my dynasty is that they (at least the Phaeron in charge of them) are actually quite satisfied with biotransference; forsaking the weakness of mortal flesh for undying self-repairing immortality was a solid move in the right direction toward full apotheosis. The royal court have no interest in reverting to flesh bodies, and count their ‘souls’ and the individuality of most of their 'lessers’ as no great loss.

But it wouldn’t be enough to simply *enjoy* the benefits of abandoning the flesh, if they did not share this benefescience with the younger species who have come to fill the galaxy. Their lives are turbulent, troubled both by the weaknesses of their simple organic forms and the ever-looming threat of the Warp that their own ‘souls’ pose. Better by far to strip their flawed flesh, capture their minds in imperishable and warp-free forms. It’s for their own good.

I think I might run with the idea that most of the Necron Warriors and other chuds are in fact biotransferred humans, Cybermen and Husk style to call back to two of the chief inspirations. Consciousnesses stripped from body and soul, assigned to rudimentary machine forms that lack sufficient processing power to retain much in the way of individuality, loosed on their erstwhile fellows.

Maybe because the Tomb World in question saw much harder wear from time than most seem to have- I really like the new more heavily corroded look of the newer necron models and it makes a lovely way to add in various forms of oxidation for visual interest. So lots of their less ‘important’ members (warriors and such) were either ruined or salvaged for parts to repair the more ‘important’ members of the court, and they needed to replenish their numbers quickly when waking up beneath a now-Imperial hive world. Whether this forms a convenient excuse for ‘sharing’ biotransference with the humans, is a happy coincidence, or is some form of portent that the evangelization of necrodermis is The Correct Path Forward depends on who you ask and how cynical or full of quasi-religious fervor they are.

So okay that’s all well and good, a clear ‘personality’ and aesthetic for the army, but now I gotta name the dynasty, its tomb world, and its Phaeron. Fffffuck. Naming things is hard.

Ok. Start with the Phaeron. so far I’ve got a few names jotted down:

Atramenes- sounds egyptian, sounds vaguely Important, inspired by the word ‘atramentous’ meaning dark/shadowy. Downside is that I used this for like the first boss monster in my d&d campaign, a lowly Nothic. Might thus make a better name for a Cryptek of some kind? Even though it’s a cool name? Enh? Not sure though, because lifting ideas from my d&d games, while at least they’re my own ideas generally, still feels a bit like a cop-out.

Khatash- sounds vaugely egyptian, sounds vaguely important, makes a decent dynastic name ‘Khatashic’. Downside is that this is basically just part of the name of one of my d&d setting’s Evil Gods, Bel Katash, the First Tiefling, the Usurper God of Death. Upside is that the basic personality and backstory actually kinda fit for a necron Phaeron.

Khephret- sounds very egyptian as it’s just the name of the scarab god of the dawn, Khephri, with a sligthly different ending. Cool association with scarabs given the necron scarabs, might make a decent Phaeron name? Khephret/Khephretic/Khephretakh dynasty sounds okay. Downside is that Khephri is... kind of a nice dude, associated with light and rebirth and all. Actually that might work? ‘Rebirth’ into necrodermis, ‘light’ from various horrible ray guns?

Akinshekhor- sounds not egyptian at all but sounds kinda Sumerian to me, so at least it still evokes ‘ancient ass desert’? Sounds very important and somewhat intimidating. Downside is it was literally the name of my summoned Doomguard in WoW many years ago and while I was like ‘oh shit that sounds like a Babylonian Demon King! rad!’ and was very pleased with my good luck on the random name generator, fundamentally it’s still a personal MMO reference which rates even lower than lifting ideas from my d&d campaigns.

Ramesekh- sounds very egyptian obviously; Rameses = Ozymandias and all that. Doesn’t sound especially intimidating or important to me, unfortunately.

On to the tomb world. So far the ideas are:

Carcosa- just call it fuckening Carcosa. Maybe it orbits the star Hali. Maybe one of the earliest biotransferred humans was the Planetary Governor Cassilda. Downside: just outright flagrant theft from Bierce and Chambers.

Nephandor- drawn from ‘nefandous’ meaning ‘unspeakable’, ties in nicely with my early ideas for the dynasty name based on something similar but then I ran into the fact that there’s already a canon dynasty called Nephrekh so had to rethink things. Kinda sounds like Nephren-Ka, also, being Lovecraft’s ancient egyptian avatar of Nyarlathotep.

Eidolon- great ominous name for a planet. Eidolon being a word that can mean both ‘perfected form’ and ‘spectre of oncoming death’ and carrying connotations of not-quite-human. Downside of course is that there’s already a chaos space marine in the Emperor’s Children named Eidolon. Bleh.

Ophir- biblical name for a historical place proooobably in India but has the ri ght ‘sound’ to it, making one think of shifting sands and ancient ruins. ‘

“Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away”

Anyhow this got... long.... but I kinda want anyone who bothered to read this far to weigh in on your favorites because I am having a terrible time deciding anything here besides the basic ideas outlined before the names section.